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LECTURES 


GENERAL  LITERATURE, 

POETRY,  &c. 


BY   JAMES   MONTGOMERY, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD,"  "  THE 
PELICAN  ISLAND,"  ETC.,  ETC 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

329   &   331    PEARL    STREET, 
FRANKLIN   SQUARE. 

1855. 


5^ 

:55 


85^ 


PREFACE. 


Having  ventured  to  lay  these  papers  before  the 
Public,  the  author  dare  not  go  further,  in  explana- 
tion or  apology,  than  to  express  a  hope  that,  what- 
ever imperfections  may  be  found  in  them,  the  candid 
reader  will  be  more  inclined  to  approve  than  con- 
demn what  he  cannot  but  perceive  has  been  done 
in  good  faith,  and  in  honour  of  a  noble  art,  which 
its  advocate  may  have 

"  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too  well." 

That  ai't  he  pretends  not  to  teach,  but  merely  to 
illustrate  according  to  his  views  of  its  worth  and 
influence. 

Claiming  the  right  of  an  author  to  borrow  from 
himself,  he  has  adopted  a  few  brief  passages,  v/iih 
necessary  alterations,  from  the  Introductory  Essays 
to  the  Chrisiian  x^salmist  and  the  Christian  Poet, 
compiled  by  him  for  Mr.  Collins,  of  Glasgow. 
A  few  larger  sections,  but  entirely  new-moclelled, 
have  been  taken  from  critical  articles  fumbhed  by 
him  to  a  respectable  Review,  between  the  years 
1806  and  1815.  The  "  Retrospect  of  Literature," 
and  the   "  Viev/   of  Modern   English   literature," 


6  PREFACE. 

were  printed  in  the  first  volume  of  the  "  JVfetropoli' 
tan,^^  edited  by  Mr.  Campbell,  after  they  had  been 
delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution. 

To  the  noble  President,  and  the  honourable 
Managers  of  that  Institution,  as  well  as  to  the 
liberal-minded  audiences  before  whom  the  whole 
series  was  delivered,  it  is  but  justice  to  add,  dis- 
tinctly, that  they  are  in  nowise  responsible  for  any 
thing  in  these  Lectures  which  was  unworthy  to  be 
repeated  before  them.  The  author  would  disdain 
to  shelter  himself  under  their  sanction  from  any 
censure  which  honest  criticism  can  inflict  upon  him, 
in  cases  where  he  may  have  abused  their  confidence. 
The  Lectures  have  been  anxiously  revised,  espe- 
cially those  parts  which  the  hmited  time  allowed  for 
delivery  required  to  be  omitted  on  the  spot,  but 
which  appeared  to  be  more  necessary  for  their  intel- 
ligence when  submitted  to  cool  perusal,  than  when 
uttered  before  indulgent  hearers  with  the  living 
voice. 

Sheffield,  April  24,  1833. 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE  I. 

THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY   AMONG    THE   FINE  ABT8. 

ipologue — The  General  Claims  of  Poetry  to  Pre-eminence — 
Poetry  and  Music — Poetry  and  Painting — Poetry  and  Sculp- 
ture— The  Comparative  Rewards  of  Professors  of  the  Fine 
Arts — Poetry  compared  with  Eloquence,  History,  and  Phi- 
losophy—Permanence of  Poetry Page  9 

LECTURE  II. 

WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

Truth  a  Test  of  Poetry— The  Poetical  in  Objects  of  Sight— The 
Poetical  in  Sounds — The  Poetical  of  Place  and  Ciicumstance 
— The  Poetical  Aspects  of  visible  Nature — The  Poetical  in 
Childhood  and  Old  Age ,  .    .  40 

LECTURE  III. 

THE   FORM  OF   POETRY. 

Verse  ana  Prose — Characteristics  of  Prose  and  Verse — Jeremy 
Taylor — Hebrew  Poetry — Greek  and  Latin  Prosody — Modern 
Metres  and  Forms  of  Verse — The  Spenserian  Stanza  and  the 
Sonnet 68 


LECTURE  IV. 

THE    DICTION   OF    POETRV. 

Alliterative  Enghsli  Verse — RhjTned  Verse — Blank.  Verse — 
Poetic  Phraseology — Variety  of  Style — Mr.  Wordsworth's 
Theory  of  Poetic  Diction — Dr.  Darwm*s  Theory  of  Poetic 
?tyle — Poetic  Licenses  and  Dialects — Scottish  Verse — Capa- 
bilities of  Languages    101 


▼Ill  CONTENTS. 


LECTURE  V, 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY 


Narrative  Poetry — Allegorical  Poetr>' — Dramatic  Poetry — Reli 
gious  Poetry — Didactic  and  Descriptive  Poetry — L>Tic  Poetry 
— Metrical  Romances — Poetry  for  the  Young — Translated 
Poetiy 140 

LECTURE  VL 

ON  THE  POETICAL  CHARACTER;   THE  THEMES  AND  INFLUENCES 
OF    POETRY. 

The  Desire  of  Fame — Few  Universal  Reputations — Poetic  As- 
pirations and  Pursuits — The  Themes  of  Poetry — The  Influ- 
ence of  Poetry— Henry  Kirke  White— Robert  Burns  .    .  184 

A  RETROSPECT  OF  LITERATURE. 

No.  I S22 

No.  II 247 

No.  Ill 274 

A  VIEW  OF  MODERN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

No.  1 298 

No.  H 30« 


LECTURES 

ON 

GENERAL  LITERATURE, 

POETRY,    &c. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


LECTURES    ON   POETRY 


LECTURE  1. 

THE  PRE-EMINENCE   OF  POETRY  AMONG  THE  FINE  ARTS. 

Apologue. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  begins  his  Defence  of  Poesie  in 
the  following  manner: — "When  the  right  virtuous 
E.  W.  and  I  were  at  the  emperor's  court  together, 
we  gave  ourselves  to  learn  horsemanship  of  Gio. 
Pietro  Pugliano — one  that,  with  great  commendation, 
had  the  place  of  an  esquire  in  his  stable ;  and  he, 
according  to  the  fertileness  of  the  Italian  wit,  did 
not  only  afford  us  the  demonstration  of  his  practice, 
but  sought  to  enrich  our  minds  with  the  contempla- 
tion therein,  which  he  thought  was  most  precious. 
But  with  none,  I  remember,  mine  ears  were  at  any 
time  more  loaden  than  when  (angered  with  our 
slow  payment,  or  moved  with  our  learnerlike  admi- 
ration) he  exercised  his  speech  in  praise  of  his  fac- 
ulty. He  said,  soldiers  were  the  noblest  of  mankind, 
and  horsemen  were  the  noblest  soldiers.  He  said, 
they  were  the  masters  of  war,  and  the  ornaments  of 
peace  ;  speedy  goers,  and  strong  abiders ;  triumphers 
both  in  camps  and  courts :  nay,  to  so  unbelieved  a 
point  he  proceeded,  as  that  no  earthly  thing  bred  so 
much  wonder  to  a  prince  as  to  be  a  good  horseman ; 
,    B 


10  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

skill  in  government  was  but  pedarderia  in  com 
parison  Then  wor.lc".  !ie  ^idd  certain  praises,  bj 
telling  what;  a  peerless  bcabt  the  horse  was  ;  the  onlj 
serviceable  courtier  without  flaitery:  the  beast  of 
most  b3'j'4ty,  faithiulncss,  courage,  and  such  niore^ 
that,  if  I  had  not  been  a  piece  of  a  logician  before  1 
came  to  him,  I  think  he  would  have  persuaded  me 
to  have  wished  myself  a  horse.  But  thus  much,  with 
his  no  few  words,  he  drove  into  me, — that  self-love 
is  better  than  any  gilding  to  make  that  seem  gor- 
geous wherein  ourselves  are  parties.  Wherein,  if 
Pugliano's  strong  aflfection  and  weak  arguments  will 
not  satisfy  you,  I  will  give  you  a  nearer  example  of 
myself,  who  (I  know  not  by  what  mischance,  in  these 
my  not  old  years  and  idlest  times),  having  slipped  into 
the  title  of  a  poet,  am  provoked  to  say  something 
unto  you,  in  defence  of  that  myunelected  vocation; 
which  if  I  handle  with  more  good-will  than  good 
reasons,  bear  w^ith  me,  since  the  scholar  is  to  be 
pardoned  that  foUoweth  in  the  steps  of  his  master." 

Thus  far  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

Without  assuming  or  disclaiming  any  personal 
application  of  the  foregoing  apologue,  the  writer  of 
the  following  strictures  believes  "that  he  could  not 
more  fitly  have  introduced  them  to  the  liberal  and 
enlightened  auditory  before  whom  he  is  permitted 
to  read  them  ;  who  will  thus  be  prepared  both  to 
expect,  and,  he  trusts,  to  pardon,  no  small  measure 
of  extravagance  in  them. 

The  General  Claims  of  Poetry  to  Pre-eminence. 

Poetry  is  the  eldest,  the  rarest,  and  the  most  ex- 
cellent of  the  fine  arts.  It  was  the  first  fixed  form 
of  language ;  the  earliest  perpetuation  of  thought : 
it  existed  before  prose  in  history,  before  music  in 
melody,  before  painting  in  description,  and  before 
sculpture  in  imagery.  Anterior  to  the  discovery  of 
letters,  it  was  employed  to  communicate  the  lessons 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  H 

of  wisdom,  to  celebrate  the  achievements  of  valour, 
and  to  promulgate  the  sanctions  of  law.  Music  was 
invented  to  accompany,  and  painting  and  sculpture 
to  illustrate  it. 

I  have  ventured  to  say  that  poetry  is  the  rarest 
of  the  fine  arts  ;  and  in  proof,  I  need  only  appeal  to 
the  literature  of  our  own  country,  in  which  will  be 
found  the  remains  of  more  than  five  hundred  writers 
of  verse,  renowned  in  their  generation,  of  whom 
there  are  not  fifty  whose  compositions  rise  to  the 
dignity  of  true  poetry ;  and  of  these  there  are  scarcely 
ten  who  are  familiarly  known  by  their  works  at  this 
day.  The  art  of  constructing  easy,  elegant,  and 
even  spirited  verse  may  be  acquired  by  any  mind 
of  moderate  capacity,  and  enriched  with  liberal 
knowledge  ;  and  those  who  cultivate  this  talent  may 
occasionally  hi^  upon  some  happy  theme,  and  handle 
it  with  such  unaccustomed  delicacj'-  or  force,  that  for 
a  while  they  outdo  themselves,  and  produce  that 
which  adds  to  the  public  stock  of  permanent  poetry. 
But  habitually  to  frame  the  lay  that  quickens  the  pulse, 
flushes  the  cheek,  warms  the  heart,  and  expands  the 
soul  of  the  hearer, — playing  upon  his  passions  as  upon 
a  lyre,  and  making  him  to  feel  as  though  he  were 
"lolding  converse  with  a  spirit;  this  is  the  art  of 
Nature  herself,  invariably  and  perpetually  pleasing, 
by  a  secret  and  undefinable  charm,  which  lives 
through  all  her  works,  and  causes  the  very  stones, 
as  well  as  the  stars,  to  cry  out — 

"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

The  power  of  being  a  poet  in  this  sense  is  a  power 
from  Hsaven:  wherein  it  consists,  I  know  not;  but 
this  I  do  know,  that  there  never  existed  a  poet  of  the 
highest  order  who  either  learned  his  art  of  one  or 
taaght  it  to  another.  It  is  true  that  the  poet  com- 
municates to  the  bosom  of  his  reader  the  flame  which 
burns  in  his  own ;  but  the  bosom  thus  enkind]<'d 
cannot   communicate   the   fire  to  a  third.     In   ilu 


12        THE  PRE-EMINENCE  OF  POETRY, 

breast  of  the  bard  alone  that  energy  of  thought  which 
gives  birth  to  poetry  is  an  active  principle;  ui  all 
others  it  is  only  a  passive  sentiment.  That  alone  is 
true  poetry  which  makes  the  reader  himself  a  poet 
for  the  time  while  he  is  mider  its  excitement ;  which, 
indeed,  constrains  him  to  feel,  to  see,  to  think — 
almost  to  be  what  the  poet  felt,  saw,  thought,  and 
was  while  he  was  conceiving  and  composing  his 
work.  And  this  theory  is  confirmed  by  the  fact,  that 
(hough  original  genius  is  wonderfully  aided  in  its 
development  and  display  by  learning  and  refinement, 
yet  among  the  rudest  people  it  has  been  found,  like 
native  gold  and  unwrought  diamond,  as  pure  and 
perfect  in  essence,  though  incrusted  with  basei 
matter,  as  among  the  most  enlightened  nations. 
With  the  first,  however,  it  is  seldomer  seen,  not 
being  laboriously  dug  from  the  mine,  purified  in  the 
furnace,  or  polished  on  the  wheel,  but  only  occasion  • 
ally  washed  from  the  mountains,  or  accidentally  dis 
covered  among  the  sands. 

It  is  a  remarkable  coincidence,  that,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  ancient  Rome,  the  noblest  productions  of 
the  Muses  have  appeared  in  the  middle  ages,  between 
gross  barbarism  and  voluptuous  refinement,  when  the 
human  mind  yet  possessed  strong  traits  of  its  pri- 
meval grandeur  and  simplicity ;  but  divested  of  its 
former  ferociousness,  and  chastened  by  courteous 
manners,  felt  itself  rising  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and 
intellectual  superiority.  The  poems  of  Homer  ex- 
isted long  before  Greece  arrived  at  its  zenith  of  glory, 
or  even  of  highly  advanced  civilization.  Dante, 
Petrarch,  and  Ariosto,  in  Italy;  Ercilla,  in  Spain; 
Camoens,  in  Portugal ;  as  well  as  our  own  Shaks- 
peare,  Spenser,  and  Milton  ;  flourished  in  periods 
far  inferior  to  the  present  in  wealth,  luxury,  general 
intelligence,  an-d  literary  taste ;  yet  in  their  re- 
spective countries  their  great  poems  have  not  since 
been  equalled,  nor  is  it  probable  that  they  will  here 
after  be  surpassed  by  any  of  their  successors. 


Till-:    PRE-EMINENCK    OF    POB^RY.  13 

To  the  peculiar  good  fortune  which,  in  their  re- 
spective countries,  and  independent  of  their  abstract 
merits,  has  secured  imperishable  pre-eminence  to  a 
few  early  and  great  names,  more  particular  allusion 
will  be  made  in  another  place. 

Poetry  is  ni)t  only  the  earliest  and  rarest,  but  also 
the  most  excellent  of  the  fine  arts.  It  transcends  all 
other  literary  composition  in  harmony,  beauty,  and 
splendour  of  style,  thought,  and  imagery,  as  well  as 
in  the  vivacity  and  permanency  of  its  impressions  on 
the  mind ;  for  its  language  and  sentiments  are  so 
intimately  connected,  that  they  are  rememberea 
together;  they  are  soul  and  body,  which  cannot  be 
separated  without  death, — a  death  in  which  the  dis- 
solution of  the  one  causes  the  disappearance  of  the 
other ;  if  the  spell  of  the  words  be  broken,  the  charm 
of  the  idea  is  lost.  Thus  nothing  can  be  less  adorned 
than  the  opening  of  "  Paradise  Lost ;"  the  cadence 
of  the  verse  alone  redeems  the  v/hole  from  being 
plain  prose  in  the  first  six  lin.es  ;  but  thenceforward 
it  rises  through  every  clause  in  energy  and  grandeur, 
till  the  reader  feels  himself  carried  away  by  the  im 
petuosity  of  that 

"  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aconian  mount :'' 

and  experiences  full  proof  of  the  poet's  power  to 
accomplish  his  purpose,  so  magnificently  set  forth 
in  the  crowning  lines  of  the  clause  : — 

"  That  to  the  height  of  this  gi-eat  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  providence.. 
And  justify  the  vrays  of  God  to  man." 

Now,  let  any  man  attempt  to  tell  to  another  the 
subject  of  Miiton  s  exordium.  This  he  might  do 
very  correctly,  and  in  very  apt  words  ;  yet  his  prose 
interpretation  would  be  no  more  to  Milton's  stately 


14  THE0PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

numbers,  than  the  arjriiment  at  ihe  head  of  the  firpt 
book  is  to  the  discussion  of  that  argument  m  the 
poem  itself. 

Poetry  and  Music. 

Poetry  transcends  music  in  the  passion,  pathos, 
and  meaning-  of  its  movements ;  for  its  harmonies 
are  ever  united  with  distinct  feelings  and  emotions 
of  the  rational  soul ;  their  associations  are  always 
clear  and  easily  comprehensible :  whereas  music, 
when  it  is  not  allied  to  language,  or  does  not  appeal 
to  memory,  is  simply  a  sensual  and  vague,  though  an 
innocent  and  highly  exhilarating  delight,  conveying 
no  direct  improvement  to  the  heart,  and  leaving  little 
permanent  impression  upon  the  mind.  When,  in- 
deed, music  awakens  national,  military,  local,  or 
tender  recollections  of  the  distant  or  the  dead,  the 
loved  or  the  lost,  it  then  performs  the  highest  office 
of  poetry, — it  is  poetry,  as  Echo  in  the  golden  my- 
thology of  Greece  remained  a  nymph,  even  after  she 
had  passed  away  into  a  sound.  But  the  first  music 
must  have  been  vocal,  and  the  first  words  sung  to 
notes  must  have  been  metrical.  "  Blest  pair  of  Sy- 
rens, Voice  and  Verse  !"  exclaims  the  greatest  of 
our  po*^ts  (himself  a  musician,  and  never  more  a 
poet  than  when  he  chants  the  praises  of  the  sister 
art,  as  he  does  in  a  hundred  passages,) — 

"Blest  pair  of  Syrens,  Voice  and  Verse ! 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,"  &c. 

So  sang  Milton.  Instrumental  accompaniments  were 
afterward  invented  to  aid  the  influence  of  both;  and 
when  all  three  are  combined  in  solemn  league  and 
covenant,  nothing  earthly  so  eflfectually  presents  to 
our  "high-raised  phantasy," 

"  That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  consent, 
Aye  sung  around  the  sappliire-colour'd  throne» 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  15 

To  Him  that  sits  tliereon  ;  *  *  *  * 
Where  the  might  seraphim,  in  burning  row 
Their  loud,  uphfted  angel- trumpets  blow; 
And  the  cherubic  hosts,  in  thousand  choirs, 
Touch  their  celestial  harps  of  golden  wires." 

But  there  is  a  limit  beyond  which  poetry  ana  music 
cannot  go  tog-ether ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  from 
the  point  where  they  separate,  poetry  assuines  a 
higher  and  more  commanding,  as  well  as  versatile, 
character;  while  music  becomes  more  complex, 
curious,  and  altogether  artificial,  incapable  (except 
as  an  accompaniment  to  dancing)  of  being  understood 
or  appreciated  by  any  except  professors  and  ama- 
teurs. In  this  department,  though  very  imperfectly 
intellectual  or  imaginative,  to  compose  it  requires 
great  power  of  intellect,  and  great  splendour,  fertility, 
and  promptitude  of  imagination.  Handel,  Haydn, 
Beethoven,  Mozart,  as  inventors  of  imperishable 
strains,  both  vocal  and  instrumental,  may  be  not 
unworthily  ranked  with  the  first  order  of  poets.  To 
be  an  accomplished  performer,  however,  though  it 
requires  talent  and  tact  of  a  peculiar  kind,  no  more 
implies  the  genius  to  compose  music  than  to  be  a 
consummate  actor  implies  the  ability  to  write  trage- 
dies. The  mental  exercise  in  each  case  is  essen- 
tially as  different  as  invention  and  imitation  are.  A 
skilful  violinist  may  lead  the  oratorio  of  the  Messiali 
as  Handel  himself  could  not  have  led  it :  Kemble 
could  not  have  written  the  part  of  Hamlet,  nor  could 
Shakspeare  have  performed  it  as  Kemble  did. 

It  may  be  observed  here  that  the  musical  and  the 
poetical  ear  are  entirely  distinct.  Many  musicians 
have  disagreeably  bad  voices  in  conversation,  and 
chatter  in  jig-tim.e,  or  talk  in  staccato  tones,  unendur- 
able to  one  who  has  a  fine  sense  of  the  melody  of 
speech  On  the  other  hand,  poets  and  declaimers 
have  frequently  had  no  ear  at  all  for  music.  Pope 
had  none ;  Garrick  had  none  ;  yet  in  harmonious 
rhythmical    composition  the  poet  to  this  hour  is 


16  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

unexcelled :  nor  was  the  actor  less  perfect  in  man- 
aging the  cadences  and  intonations  of  a  voice  "  aa 
musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute,"  in  the  delivery  of  the 
most  familiar,  impassioned,  or  heroic  speeches  which 
the  whole  range  of  the  British  drama  impose-j;  Irom 
King  Lear  to  Abel  Drugger. 

It  is  a  common  complaint  with  ordinary  conr^':  sers, 
that  poets  do  not  write  verses  suitable  'n  m  jsic. 
Though  there  is  some  truth  in  the  statemei)-,  ^r  re- 
fers to  poets  of  the  same  class  as  such  cji[\\jiaen 
themselves  are,  yet  it  is  the  express  business  of 
those  who  set  poetry  at  all  to  adapt  their  notes  to 
the  pitch  of  it,  whereby  their  own  melodies  will  be 
proportionately  exalted;  not  to  require  that  the 
poet's  lay  should  be  brought  down  to  their  standard 
of  adaptation,  and  the  nobler  art  be  degraded  by  con- 
descending to  the  inferior.  That  the  most  exquisite 
strains  of  English  verse  may  be  fitted  to  strains  of 
music  worthy  of  them,  we  have  examples  abundant 
in  the  present  day,  from  the  songs  of  Robert  Burna 
to  the  melodies  of  Thomas  Moore.  Yet  something 
must  be  conceded  occasionally  on  the  part  of  the 
poets,  though  no  more  than  may,  at  the  same  time, 
improve  their  lines  as  verse,  while  it  renders  them 
more  obedient  subjects  for  music.  Dryden,  in  the 
preface  to  one  of  his  operas,  gives  vent  to  his  impa- 
tience at  being  necessitated  to  make  his  noble  bul 
reluctant  numbers  submit  to  be  drilled  and  disci- 
plined to  the  tactics  of  a  French  composer.  After 
enumerating  some  of  his  miserable  shifts,  he  says, — 
"  It  is  true,  I  have  not  often  been  put  to  this  drudg- 
ery ;  but  where  I  have,  the  words  will  sufficiently 
show  that  I  was  then  a  slave  to  the  composition, 
which  I  will  ntvcr  be  again.  It  is  my  part  to  invent, 
and  the  musician's  to  humour  that  invention.  I  may 
be  counselled,  and  will  always  follow  my  friend's 
advice  where  I  find  it  reasonable,  but  I  will  never 
part  with  the  power  of  the  militia.'''' — Inlroduction  to 
Albion  and  Albanvs. 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  17 


Poetry  and  Painting. 

Poetry  is  superior  to  painting;  for  poetry  is  pro- 
gressive, painting  stationary,  in  its  capabilities  of 
description.  Poetry  elevates  the  soul  through  every 
gradation  of  thought  and  feeling,  producing  its  great- 
est effects  at  the  last.  Painting  begins  precisely 
where  poetry  breaks  off^ — with  the  climax  of  the 
subject,  and  lets  down  the  mind  from  the  catas- 
trophe through  the  details  of  the  story,  impercepti- 
bly soothing  it  from  sublime  astonishment  into 
tranquil  approbation.  Painting  is  limited  to  a 
movement  of  time  and  an  eye-glance  of  space  ;  but 
it  must  be  confessed  that  it  can  make  that  moment 
last  for  ages,  and  render  that  eye-glance  illustrious 
as  the  sun.  Poetry  is  restrained  neither  to  time 
nor  place;  resembling  the  sun  himself,  it  may 
shine  successively  all  round  the  globe,  and  endure 
till  "  the  earth,  and  the  works  therein,  shall  be  burnt 
up." 

Painting  exhibits  its  whole  purpose  at  one  view, 
but  with  a  generality  of  character  which  requires 
previous  acquaintance  with  that  purpose  before  the 
spectator  can  judge  whether  it  has  been  eff«  cted ; 
we  must  know  all  that  was  intended  to  be  done  be- 
fore we  can  comprehend  what  has  actually  been 
done.  Then,  indeed,  if  the  aim  has  been  success- 
fully accomplished,  the  glory  of  the  artist  is  consum- 
mated at  once  ;  and  while  the  enthusiasm  of  admira- 
tion settles  down  into  calm  delight,  or  spreads  itself 
in  patient  and  interested  examination  of  particulars, 
the  mind  goes  back  through  all  the  difficulties  which 
have  been  overcome  in  the  management  and  con- 
duct of  the  performance  as  a  work  of  art,  and  all  the 
circumstances  which  must  have  concurred  to  bring 
the  story,  if  the  subject  be  narrative,  the  scenery  if 
It  be  landscape,  or  the  person  if  it  be  portrait,  to  that 


18  THE    PUK-EMINENCE    OF    FOKTKV. 

special  crisis,  light,  or  aspect  which  has  enabled  the 
inventor  to  exhibit  the  sum  of  his  ideas  so  felici- 
tously as  to  imply  the  various  antecedent,  accompa- 
nying, and  conventional  incidents  which  are  neces- 
sary to  be  understood  before  the  beholder  can  per- 
fectly gather  from  the  forms  and  colours  before  his 
eye  the  fine  fancies,  deep  feelings,  and  glorious  com- 
binations of  external  objects  which  pre-existed  in  the 
artist's  mind ;  and  out  of  a  thousand  of  which  he  has 
produced  one  partaking  of  all  and  concentrating  their 
excellences,  like  the  Venus  of  Apelles,  to  which 
the  beauties  of  Greece  lent  their  loveliness,  and  were 
abundantly  repaid  by  having  that  part  in  her  which 
she  borrowed  from  them.  Perhaps  in  portrait  alone 
can  painting  claim  the  advantage  of  poetry ;  because 
there  the  pencil  perpetuates  the  very  features,  air, 
and  personal  appearance  of  the  individual  repre- 
sented; and  when  that  individual  is  one  of  emi- 
nence,— a  hero,  a  patriot,  a  poet,  an  orator, — it  is  the 
vehicle  of  the  highest  pleasure  which  the  art  can 
communicate  ;  and  in  tliis  respect  portrait-painting 
(however  disparaged)  is  the  highest  point  of  the  art 
itself, — being  at  once  the  most  real,  intellectual,  and 
imaginative. 

A  poem  is  a  campaign,  in  which  all  the  marches, 
sufferings,  toils,  and  conflicts  of  the  hero  are  suc- 
cessively developed  to  final  victory.  A  painting  is 
the  triumph  after  victory,  when  the  conqueror,  the 
captives,  the  spoils,  and  the  trophies  are  displayed  in 
s>ne  pageant  of  magnificence, — implying,  undoubt- 
edly, all  the  means,  the  labour,  and  diversities  of  for- 
tune by  which  the  achievement  was  attended,  but 
without  manifesting  them  to  the  uninformed  by- 
standers. Without  previous  knowledge,  therefore, 
of  the  subjf'ct,  the  figures  in  the  most  perfect  histor 
ical  group  are  nameless  ;  the  business  in  which  they 
are  engaged  is  obscure  ;  wliile  often  the  country,  thj> 
age,  and  even  the  class  of  life  to  which  they  be- 


THi:    PRi:-KMINEXCK.    OF    POKTRY.  19 

longed,  can  be  only  imperfectly  guessed.  Of  conse- 
quence, little  comparative  interest  will  be  excited. 
The  child's  question,  "  Is  it  true  ]"  immediately 
occurs;  and  just  in  proportion  as  we  ascertain  the 
facts,  the  person,  the  whole  story,  we  are  charmed, 
affected,  or  surprised  by  the  power  of  the  master. 
Without  the  book  the  wand  of  the  enchanter  cannot 
wori<.  the  spell. 

Landscape-painting  is  that  which  is  most  easily 
understood  at  first  sight ;  because  the  objects  of 
which  it  is  composed  are  as  familiar  to  our  eyes  as 
the  words  in  which  they  could  be  explained  are  to 
our  ears  ;  so  that  we  recognise  them  at  once,  and  can 
judge  without  commentary  of  the  grouping  and  per- 
spective. But  the  pleasure  in  contemplating  the 
most  exquisite  productions  of  Claude  Lorraine,  Gas- 
par  Poussin,  and  other  great  rnasters,  is  exceedingly 
enhanced  by  consideration  of  the  skill  of  the  artists 
in  creating,  what  never,  indeed,  for  one  moment 
becomes  an  illusion,  but  that  which  enables  the 
mind  within  itself  to  form  an  ideal  prototype  worthy 
of  the  pictured  representation.  Even  when  we 
know  that  the  scenes  are  from  nature,  admiration  of 
the  pencil  that  drew  them  is  the  highest  ingredient 
of  our  delight  in  beholding  them, — unless  by  local, 
historical,  or  personal  associations,  the  trees,  the 
streams,  the  hills,  or  the  buildings  remind  us  of  things 
greater  and  dearer  than  themselves.  This,  of  course, 
is  the  most  exalted  gratification  which  landscape- 
painting  can  offer;  yet  poetry,  which,  in  distinct 
delineations  of  natural  objects,  is  otherwise  inferior, 
has  decided  pre-eminence  here. 

The  following  stanzas  from  probably  a  hast}^-,  but 
certainly  a  happy,  effusion  of  Thomas  CampbeH's. 
in  the  dew  and  iDlossom  of  his  youthful  poetry, 
will  exemplify  this  fact.  Thoy  refer  to  a  morning 
walk,  in  company  with  a  Russian  lady,  to  a  place 
called  "  the  Fountain  of  the  Thorn,"  on  an  emi- 
nence near  Vienna,  commanding  a  view  of  the  city, 


20  THE    PRK-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY, 

the  Danube,  aijci  the  neighbouring  country  to  a  vast 
6xtenl  : — * 

"  Ah  '  how  long  shall  I  delight 
In  the  memory  of  that  morn 
When  v,-e  climb'd  the  Danube's  height 
To  the  Fountain  of  the  Thorn ! 

'•  And  beheld  his  waves  and  islands 
_  Fiashincr,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
t'rom  Vienna's  gorgeous  towers 
To  the  mountains  of  the  Hua 

='  There  was  gladness  in  the  sky, 
There  was  verdure  all  around  ; 
And,  where'er  it  turn'd,  the  eye 
Look'd  on  rich  historic  ground. 

**  Over  Arpern's.field  of  gloiy 

Noontide's  distant  haze  was  cast, 
And  the  hills  of  Turkish  story 
Teem'd  with  visions  of  the  past." 

What  could  a  painter  do  with  this  1  Assuredly  he 
might  produce  a  landscape  as  superb  as  ever  ema- 
nated, in  colours  of  this  world,  from  the  pencils  of 
Titian  or  Rubens.  All  the  elements  are  at  hand.  A 
bird's-eye  prospect  from  a  height  overlooking  a  ma- 
jestic river,  studded  v/ith  islands,  "flashing,  glitter- 
ing in  the  sun ;"  the  "  gorgeous  towers"  of  an  im- 
perial city  ;  the  verdure  of  woods  on  every  side ; 
over  all,  a  brilliant  sky ;  and  far  away,  beneath  the 
haze  of  summer-noon,  long  lines  of  undulated  hills, 
lessening,  lightening,  vanishing  from  the  view.  The 
canvLSs  might  be  covered  with  all  these  ;  yet,  though 
they  might  dazzle  the  eye,  and  enchant  the  imagma- 

*  The  introdticfcry  and  conclii(lin;j;  verses,  beinp; merely  complimentarj', 
are  omitted.  The  poem  iisclf  first  appeared  in  thus  country  in  the  "  Fam- 
ily Ma-jaziiie  oCNqvcinber,  I&HO,"  edited  by  Mr.  Shobcrl,  who  ackiiow- 
ledj;es  that  he  coi)ied  them  from  a  German  periodical  ptiblished  at  Vienna. 
They  were  probably  written  about  the  year  1802. 


THE    PRK-EMINKNCi:    OF    POETRY.  21 

tion,  like  a  glimpse  into  fairy-land, — unexplained, 
tiiey  would  be  mere  abstractions,  and  the  picture 
would  be  valued  solely  as  a  work  of  art;  but  let  a 
label  be  attached  with  the  word  Vienna  upon  it,  then, 
indeed,  a  new  and  nobler  interest  would  be  felt  in  the 
whole,  and  curiosity  to  find  out  every  part  when  we 
knew  that  a  real  city,  stream,  and  landscape  were 
depicted.  This,  however,  would  be  the  extent  to 
which  the  painter  could  transport  the  eye  and  the 
mind  of  hi<3  admirer. 

Here,  then,  begins  the  triumph  of  poetry,  which, 
while  it  can  adorn,  more  or  less  perfectly,  all  the 
subjects  of  painting  drawn  from  visible  nature,  has 
the  whole  invisible  world  to  itself,— thoughts,  feel- 
ings, imaginations,  affections,  all  that  memory  can 
preser^ve  of  things  past,  and  all  that  prescience  can 
conceive  or  forbode  of  things  to  come.  These  it  can 
express,  minutely  or  comprehensively,  in  mass  or  in 
detail,  foreshortened  or  progressive,  line  by  line, 
shade  by  shade,  till  it  completely  possesses  the 
reader,  and  puts  him  as  completely  in  possession  of 
all  that  is  most  nearly  or  remotely  associated  with 
the  theme  in  discussion.  In  the  instance  before 
us,  the  poet  does  this  with  the  fewest  possible 
phrases ;  and  yet  with  such  brilliance  and  force  of 
allusion  that  the  reader  has  only  to  follow,  in  any 
direction,  the  retrospective  avenues  opened  on  every 
hand. 

After  shedding  the  glory  of  sunshine  on  the 
"waves  and  islands"  of  the  river,  the  green  luxuri- 
ance of  the  champaign,  and  the  "  gorgeous  towers" 
of  the  metropolis, — in  three  words  he  lets  in  the 
daylight  of  past  ages  upon  the  scene.  His  "  rich 
historic  ground"  calls  up  the  actions  and  actors  of 
the  mightiest  events  ever  exhibited  on  that  theatre; 
the  mountains  of  the  Hun,  the  field  of  Aspern,  the 
hills  of  Turkish  story,  are  crowded  Vv'ith  armies, 
flouted  with  banners,  and  shaken  with  the  tramp  of 
chivalry  and  the  march  of  phalanxed  legions.    They 


22  THE    PRE-EMIXENCK    OF    POETRY 

all  "  teem  with  visions  of  the  past,"      Those  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of  the  siege 
Df  Vienna  by  the  Turks,  about  the  middle  of  the  sev- 
?nteenth  century,  and  its  deliverance  by  Sobieski 
King-  of  Poland,  will  at  once  realize  the  Ottoman 
oattle-array  under  the  beleaguered  walls  ;  the  despair 
within  the  city,  where  all  hope  but  in  Heaven  was 
:ut  off,  and  the  churches  were  thronged  with  pray- 
ing multitudes ;  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  Poles, 
and  their  attack  uponi  the  infidels :  the  rage  of  con- 
flict, man  to  man,  horse  to  horse,  swords  against 
scimitars,  scimitars  against  swords,  one    moment 
'  flashing,  glittering  in  the  sun,"  the  next  crimsoned 
and  reeking  with  blood;  the  shouts,  the  groans,  the 
agonies,  the  transports  of  the  strife  ;  till  the  barba- 
rians, borne  down  by  the  irresistible  impetuoj^ity  of 
their  Christian  assailants,  fell  heaps  upon  heaps  on 
'*  the  field  of  glory,"  or  fled  "  to  the  mountains  of  the 
Hun,"  while   Danube,  from  "  the  Fountain  of  the 
Thorn,"  rolled  purple  to  the  deep,  bearing  along  with 
.^is  overcharged  current  the  turbaned  corpses  of  the 
nvaders  back  into  the  bowels  of  their  own  land. 
That  disastrous  siege  and  triumphant  rescue  v/ere 
celebrated  by  a  contemporary  poet  (Filicaja)  in  three 
of  the  sublimest  odes  which  Italy  can  boast;  and 
which  (with  the  exception  of  tlie  Hohenlinden  and  the 
Battle  of  the  Bnltic,  by  oui'accomplislied  countryman 
whose  stanzas  I  have  been  discussing)  stand  unri- 
valled by  any  war-songs  with  which  I  am  acquainted, 
whether  among  the  few  fragments  of  antiquity,  or 
in  the  whole  armory  of  later  ages. 

Poeti-y  and  Sculpture. 

Sculpture  is  the  noblest,  but  the  most  limited,  of 
the  manual  fine  arts;  it  produces  the  fewest,  but  the 
greatest,  effects  ;  it  approaclies  nearest  to  nature,  and 
yet  can  present  little  besides  models  of  her  living 
forms,  and  those   principally  in  repose.     Plausible 


THE    PRE-EMINENCIi    OF    POKTRY.  23 

reasons  are  assigned  for  the  latter  spontaiieous  re- 
striction of  their  art,  witli  which  practitioners  in 
general  are  satisfied,  from  the  extreme  difficulty,  and 
with  most  of  them  the  absolute  impossibility  of  ex- 
pressing lively  action  or  vehement  passion  otherwise 
than  in  their  beginnings  and  their  results.  Tliis  is 
not  the  place  to  discuss  the  question ;  yet  I  know 
not  how  it  can  be  doubted  that  sculpture  might 
legitimately  essay,  and  victoriously  achieve,  the 
most  daring  innovations  in  this  almost  forbidden 
field,  into  which  few  besides  Michael  Angelo  and 
Roubilliac,  among  the  moderns,  have  set  a  foot  with- 
out trembling  hesitation  or  ignorant  presumption, 
either  of  which  must  have  ensured  miscarriage.  The 
Laocoon  and  the  friezes  of  the  Parthenon  are  tro- 
phies of  ancient  prowess  in  this  perilous  department, 
which,  instead  of  being  the  despair,  ought  to  be  the 
assurance  of  hope  to  adventurers  in  a  later  age  and 
colder  clime,  among  a  people  more  phlegmatic  than 
the  gay  Greeks  or  the  spirited  Italians.  When  a 
new  Pygmalion  shall  arise,  he  will  not  be  content  to 
say  to  his  statue,  with  the  last  stroke  of  the  chisel, 
''Speak,''  but  he  v/ill  add,  "  Move.'' 

Be  this  as  it  may, — beauty,  intelligence,  strength, 
grace  of  attitude,  symmetry  of  limb,  harmonious 
grouping,  simple,  severe,  sublime  expression,  the 
soul  informing  the  marble,  the  pers-onal  character 
stamped  upon  the  features, — these  are  the  highest 
attempts  of  the  highest  minds,  in  the  highest  of  the 
imitative  arts.  It  follows  that  mediocrity  is  less 
tolerable  in  sculpture  than  in  painting,  music,  and 
even  poetry  itself.  Nothing  in  it  is  truly  excellent 
but  that  which  is  pre-eminently  so  ;  because  nothing 
less  than  the  most  successful  strokes  of  the  happiest 
chisel  can  powerfully  affect  the  spectator,  fix  him  in 
dumb  astonishment,  touch  his  heart-strings  with 
tender  emotion,  or  stir  thought  from  its  depths  into 
ardent  and  earnest  exercise.  1  appeal  to  all  who 
hear  me,  whether  among  a  hundred  of  the  monu 


24  THE    PRE-EMINENCK    OF    POETRY. 

ments  in  our  cathedrals,  and  the  statues  in  our  pub- 
lic places,  they  ever  met  with  more  \iian  one  or  two 
that  laid  hold  of  their  imagination  so  as  to  haunt  it 
both  in  retirement  and  in  society, — or  most  unex 
pectedly  to 

"  flash  ■upon  that  inward  eye, 
Wliich  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ;" 

WoRDSWORTk. 

for  even  in  crowds,  in  business,  in  dissipation,  what 
has  intensely  appealed  to  our  sympathy  on  first 
acquaintance  will  often  recur  in  the  image-chamber 
of  the  mind.  Thus,  after  the  first  hearing,  will  cer- 
tain strains  of  music  ;  thus,  after  the  first  sight, 
some  masterpiece  of  painting;  and  frequently,  far 
more  frequently  than  either  of  these,  after  the  first 
reading,  will  lines,  and  phrases,  and  sentiments  of 
poetry  ring  in  the  memory,  and  play  with  the  affec- 
tions: but  rarely  indeed  in  sculpture  does  the  image 
presented  to  the  eye  become  a  statue  of  thought  in  the 
mind.  This  may  be  principally  owing  to  the  paucity 
of  subjects  (I  mean  as  the  art  is  now  practised), 
and,  to  an  uninitiated  eye  at  least,  the  similarity 
of  treatment  by  ordinary  adepts,  whether  single 
figures  or  monumental  groups.  When,  however  (to 
use  a  strong  metaphor),  at  the  touch  of  some  Pro- 
methean hand,  a  statue  steps  out  of  this  enchanted 
circle,  and  looks  as  though  it  had  grown  out  of  the 
marble  in  the  course  of  nature,  without  the  aid  of 
hands ;  then  indeed  does  the  artist  enrich  the  be- 
holder with  one  of  the  rarest  treasures  that  genius 
can  bequeath  to  contemporaries  or  posterity ;  and 
for  which  the  willing  yet  exacted  homage  of  applause 
will  never  cease  to  be  paid  while  his  work  endures. 
Such  are  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  the  Venus  de'  Medici, 
and  other  inestimable  relics  of  antiquity  ;  such  the 
Moses  and  David  of  Michael  Angelo ;  and  such  (to 
give  an  English  example  worthy  to  be  named  with 
these ;  judgmg  solely  by  the  power  which  it  exer- 


THK    PRE-IiMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  25 

cises  over  the  purest  and  most  universal  of  human 
sympathies, — sympathies  which  can  no  more  be 
bribed  by  artifice  than  they  can  help  yielding  to  the 
impulse  of  nature) — such,  I  say,  is  the  simple  me- 
morial, by  our  own  Chantrey,  in  Litchfield  Cathedral, 
of  two  children,  that  were  "  lovely  in  their  lives,  and 
in  death  are  undivided."  Of  these  specimens,  it  may 
be  affirmed  that  they  have  shown  how  the  narrow 
bounds  of  vulgar  precedent  may  be  left  as  far  behind 
as  a  star  in  the  heavens  leaves  a  meteor  in  the  air. 
Of  the  antiques  alone,  how  innumerable  has  been 
the  progeny  generated  from  creative  minds,  follow- 
ing them  less  by  imitation  than  by  rivalry,  and  bor- 
rowing nothing  from  them  but  elemental  principles  ; 
with  this  grand  advantage,  v/hich  can  less  strictly 
be  said  to  belong  to  models  in  any  other  polite  art, 
namely,  that  what  could  be  done,  but  not  surpassed, 
had  been  shown ;  leaving  not  a  mere  ideal  excel- 
lence to  be  attained,  but  the  perfect  example  of  all 
that  the  eye  could  desire,  the  imagination  conceive, 
or  the  hand  execute. 

Now,  poetry  is  a  school  of  sculpture,  in  which  the 
art  flourishes,  not  in  marble  or  brass,  but  m  that  which 
outlasts  both, — in  letters,  which  the  fingers  of  a  child 
may  write  or  blot,  but  which,  once  written,  Time 
himself  may  not  be  able  to  obliterate  ;  and  in  sounds 
which  are  but  passing  breath,  yet,  being  once  uttered, 
by  possibility  may  never  cease  to  be  repeated. 
Sculpture  to  the  e^^-e,  in  palpable  materials,  is  of 
necessity  confined  to  a  few  forms,  aspects,  and  atti- 
tudes. The  poet's  images  are  living,  breathing, 
moving  creatures  ;  they  stand,  walk,  run,  fly,  speak, 
love,  fight,  fall,  labour,  suffer,  die, — in  a  word,  they 
are  men  of  like  passions  with  ourselves,  undergoing 
all  the  changes  of  actual  existence,  and  presenting 
to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  solitary  figures,  or  com- 
plicated groups,  more  easily  retained  (for  words  are 
better  recollected  than  shapen  substances),  and 
C 


26  THE    PRE-EMINKNCF,    OF    POKTUY. 

infinitely  more  diversified  than  the  chisel  could  hew 
out  of  "all  the  rocks  under  the  sun.  Nor  is  this  a 
fanciful  or  metaphorical  illustration  of  the  pre-emi- 
nence which  I  claim  for  the  art  I  am  advocating.  In 
proof  of  it,  I  appeal  at  once  to  the  works  of  the  eld- 
est and  greatest  poets  of  every  country.  In  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Chaucer,  for  example,  it  is  exceedingly 
curious  to  remark  with  what  scrupulous  care  and 
minuteness,  personal  appearance,  stature,  bulk,  com- 
plexion, age,  and  other  incidents,  are  exhibited,  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  life  and  reality  to  the  scenes 
and  actions  in  v.'hich  their  characters  are  engaged. 
All  these  are  bodied  forth  to  the  eye  through  the 
mind,  as  sculpture  addresses  the  mind  through  the 
eye. 

In  sculpture,  nothing  is  less  impressive  than  the 
allegorical  personages  that  haunt  cenotaphs,  and 
crowd  cathedral  walls ;  for,  however  admirably 
wrought,  they  awaken  not  the  slightest  emotion, 
whether  they  weep,  or  rage,  or  frown,  or  smile.  In 
poetry,  likewise,  as  may  be  shown  hereafter,  ex- 
panded allegories  are  the  least  effective  of  all  the 
means  by  which  terror,  wonder,  pity,  delight,  or 
anger  are  attempted  to  be  excited  ;  yet  with  single 
figures  frequently,  and  with  small  groups  occasion- 
ally, under  the  guise  of  metaphors  and  similes, 
poetry  of  every  kind  ia  peopled  more  splendidly, 
beautifully,  and  awfully  than  was  the  Grecian  Olym.- 
pus  with  gods  and  heroes,  the  ocean  with  nymphs 
and  nereids,  and  Tartarus  with  furies,  spectres,  and 
inexorable  judges.  Two  or  three  brief  specimens 
may  decide  the  superiority  of  verse  in  this  field 
of  competition.  How  could  the  image  of  Fear^ 
which  "  to  and  fro  did  fly,"  be  realized  in  marble  as 
it  has  been  by  Spenser  in  rhyme?  Colliiis's  odes 
are  galleries  of  poetical  statuary,  which  no  art  could 
give  to  the  sight,  though  perfectly  made  out  in  the 
sensorium  of  the  brain. 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  27 

**  Dangei-,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould, 
What  mortal  eye  could  tix'd  behold? 
Who  stalks  his  round,  a  hideous  form 
Howling  amid  the  midnight  storm, 
Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep." 

What  sculptor's  hand  could  arrest  this  monster,  and 
place  him  in  one  attitude,  which  should  suggest  all 
the  ideas  expressed  in  these  wonderful  lines  ] — his 
"  limbs  of  giant  mould," — his  stalking,  howling,  cast- 
ing himself  prone,  and  falling  asleep  ; — with  the  ac- 
companiments of  the  "  midnight  storm,"  "  the  ridgy 
steep,"  "  the  loose  hanging  rock ;"  and  above  all 
(perhaps),  the  mortal  "  eye"  vainly  attempting  \ofix 
itself  upon  his  "  hideous  form  V*  In  the  sequel  of 
the  same  ode  we  meet  with — 

"  the  ravening  brood  of  Fate, 

That  lap  the  blood  of  Sorrow." 

The  artist  might  fearfully  represent  wolves  or  wild 
dogs  lapping  the  blood  of  a  slain  victim  ;  but  it 
would  require  the  commentary  of  the  passage  itself 
to  make  the  ^ectator  understand,lhat  by  the  former 
were  meant  "  the  ravening  brood  of  Fate,"  that  fol- 

*  Chaucer's  description  of  '^  Danger^'  in  the  Romamit  of  the  Rose  is 
exceedingly  spirited,  and  equally  characteristic  with  that  of  Collins, 
though  very  different,  because  the  fiend  is  differently  exercising  himself; 
Collins  presents  natural  dangers  from  lightning,  {empest^  and  earth- 
quake,— Chaucer,  the  perils  of  war,  battle,  human  violence,  or  arabush ; 
the  last  of  which  is  finely  conceived  in  the  first  couplet  ;— 

"  With  that  anon  upstart  Dangere 
Out  of  the  place  where  he  was  hidde  ; 
His  malice  ui  his  chere  was  kidde  ;  (a) 
Full  great  he  was,  and  blacke  of  hewe. 
Sturdy  and  hideous,  whoso  him  knewe ; 
Like  sharpe  urchins  his  heere  was  grow, 
His  ey^s  red,  sparcling  as  glow ; 
His  nose  frouncid  full  kirked  stoode,  (b) 
He  comecriande  as  he  were  woode."  (c) 

(a)  Was  seen  in  his  look.  (b)  Crooked  and  upturned  stood. 

<e)  Mad. 


28  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

low  in  the  rear  of  '*  Veng-eance," — "  the  fiends,"  that, 
near  allied  to  "Danger"  afore-mentioned,  "  o'er  Na- 
ture's wounds  and  wrecks  preside  ;"  and  that  their 
prey  was  the  personification  of  "  Sorrow."  Yet  the 
poet,  in  the  context,  does  all  this  as  triumphantly  as 
thoug-h  he  could  give  bodily  sight  to  the  mental  eye, 
by  which  they  are  discerned  through  the  magic  me- 
dium of  his  verse. 

Let  us  bring — not  into  gladiatorial  conflict,  but  into 
honourable  competition,  where  neither  can  suff'er 
disparagement — one  of  the  masterpieces  of  ancient 
sculpture,  and  two  stanzas  from  "  Childe  Harold," 
in  which  that  very  statue  is  turned  into  verse,  which 
seems  almost  to  make  it  visible : — 

THE    DYING   GLADIATOR. 

"I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  ; 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony  ; 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low  ; 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him, — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  that  hail'd  the  wretch  who  won." 

Now,  all  this  sculpture  has  imbodied  in  perpetual 
marble,  and  every  association  touched  upon  in  the 
description  might  spring  up  in  a  well  instructed*mind, 
while  contemplating  the  insulated  figure  which  per- 
sonifies the  expiring  champion.  Painting  might  take 
up  the  same  subject,  and  represent  the  amphithe- 
atre thronged  to  the  height  with  ferocious  faces,  all 
bent  upon  the  exulting  conqueror  and  his  prostrate 
antagonist — a  thousand  for  one  of  them  sympa- 
thizing rather  with  the  transport  of  the  former  than 
the  agony  of  the  latter.  Here,  then,  sculpture  and 
painting  have  reached  their  climax  ;  neither  of  them 
can  give  the  actual  thouglits  of  the  personages  whom 
they  exhibit  so  palpably  to  the  outward  sense,  that 
the  character  of  those  thoughts  cannot  be  mistaken 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  29 

Poetry  goes  further  than  both  ;  and  when  one  of  the 
sisters  had  laid  down  her  chisel,  the  other  her  pencil, 
she  continues  her  strain  ;  wherein,  having-  already- 
sung  what  each  has  pictured,  she  thus  reveals  that 
secret  of  the  sufferer's  breaking  heart,  which  neither 
of  them  could  intimate  by  any  visible  sign.  But  wp 
must  return  to  the  swoon  of  the  dying  man  : — 

"  The  arena  swims  around  him, — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  that  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 

♦'  He  heard  it,  and  he  heeded  not, — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  reck'd  uot  of  the  hfe  he  loat,  nor  prize, 
— But,  where  his  rude  hut  by  tlie  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother : — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holyday , 
All  this  gush'd  with  his  blood."  *  *  ^ 

Myriads  of  eyes  had  gazed  upon  that  statue ;  through 
myriads  of  minds  all  the  images  and  ideas  connected 
with  the  combat  and  the  fall,  the  spectators  and  the 
scene,  had  passed  in  the  presence  of  that  unconscious 
marble  which  has  given  immortality  to  the  pangs  of 
death ;  but  not  a  soul  among  all  the  beholders  through 
eighteen  centuries, — not  one  had  ever  before  thought 
of  "  the  rude  hut,"  the  "  Dacian  mother,"  the  "  young 
barbarians."  At  length  came  the  poet  of  passion ; 
and  looking  down  upon  "  The  Dying  Gladiator"  (less 
as  what  it  was  than  what  it  represented),  turned  the 
marble  into  man,  and  endowed  it  with  human  affec- 
tions ;  then,  away  over  the  Apennines  and  over  the 
Alps,  away,  on  the  wings  of  irrepressible  sympathy, 
flew  his  spirit  to  the  banks  of  the  Danube,  where, 
"with  his  heart,"  were  the  "eyes"  of  the  victim, 
under  the  night-fall  of  death;  for  "there  were  his 
youug  barbarians  all  at  play,  and  there  their  Dacian 
mother."  This  is  nature  ;  this  is  truth.  While  the 
conflict  continued,  the  combatant  thought  of  himself 
only ;  he  aimed  at  nothing  but  victory :   when  life 


80  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

and  this  were  lost,  his  last  thoughts,  his  sole  thoughts, 
would  turn  to  his  wife  and  his  little  children. 

In  none  of  the  foregoing  remarks  has  the  smallest 
slight  been  aimed  at  music,  painting,  or  sculpture, 
by  giving  the  palm  to  poetry ;  in  fact  it  has  been 
intended  to  exalt  them,  that,  by  showing  the  elder 
of  the  four  sisters  to  be  the  intellectual  superior  of 
the  younger  three  (illustrious  and  unsurpassed  as 
each  is  in  her  own  department),  she  herself  might 
be  crowned  with  the  greater  glory.  On  the  subject 
of  their  generous  rivalry  let  it  be  observed,  that  it 
is  intellectual  pre-eminence  alone  which  is  here 
claimed  for  poetry.  The  measure  of  original  genius 
required  for  excelling  in  the  one  or  the  other,  I  leave 
undetermined. 

The  Comparative  Rewards  of  Professors  of  the 
Fine  Arts. 

Having  thus  endeavoured  to  prove,  by  no  invidious 
comparisons,  that  poetry  is  the  eldest,  the  rarest,  and 
the  most  excellent  of  the  fine  arts,  I  may  here  touch 
upon  another  peculiarity  not  yet  alluded  to,  being  an 
extrinsic  one, — in  which  each  of  the  others  bears 
away  from  her  a  prize  "  for  which  they  all  contend," 
though  only  of  secondary,  not  to  say  sordid,  value. 
Though  the  gift  of  poetry  be  the  most  beneficial  to 
the  world,  it  is  the  least  profitable  to  the  possessor. 

There  has  scarcely  been  a  period,  or  a  country,  in 
which  a  poet  could  live  by  the  fruits  of  his  labours. 
This  circumstance  (in  no  respect  dishonourable  to 
the  art)  has  been  a  snare  by  which  multitudes  of  its 
professors  have  been  tempted  to  dishonour  both  it 
and  themselves,  by  courtly  servility  to  royal  and 
noble  patrons ;  by  yet  viler  degradation  in  ministering 
to  vulgar  prejudi-ces,  and  pandering  to  gross  passions 
or,  with  the  garbage  of  low  satire,  feasting  envy, 
hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness, — monsters 
of  malignity,  whose  daily  food,  like  that  of  the  king 


THE    PRK-EMINENCK    Of    POKTRY.  3i 

of  Cambay,  in  Hudibras,  is  "  asp,  and  basilisk,  and 
(oad/'  But  this  is  not  the  place  to  dwell  upon  the 
miser-es  and  the  sins  of  unfortunate  poets;  with 
nothing  but  their  proverbial  poverty  have  we  to  deal 
at  present. 

It  is  acknowledged  that  great  honours  and  emolu 
nients  have  been  bestowed  on  some  of  the  tribe. 
Pindar  knew  the  value  of  his  talents  in  gold,  and  he 
exacted  it.  Virgil  and  Horace  flourished  within  the 
precincts  of  a  court ;  others  of  meaner  note,  in 
modern  times,  might  be  mentioned :  but,  after  ail. 
munificent  patronage  is  yet  rarer  than  transcendent 
talents.  In  the  age  of  Augustus  there  were  many 
poets,  and  but  one  Maacenas ;  Augustus  himself  was 
not  a  second.  It  is  well  for  poetry,  and  no  worse  for 
poets,  in  the  main,  that  the  age  of  patronage  is  past : 
that  the  Parnassian  slave-trade  is  abolished ;  would 
that  we  were  able  to  add,  that  Parnassian  slavery 
itself  was  done  away, — that  spontaneous  bondage  of 
poets  themselves  to  folly,  and  vice,  and  pernicious 
fashion,  for  the  hire  of  unrighteousness!  With 
little  to  expect  from  the  great,  to  the  public  the 
successful  poet  may  look  for  his  moderate  but  not 
inglorious  reward. 

It  has  been  facetiously  said  that  booksellers  drink 
their  wine  out  of  the  sculls  of  authors ;  and  it  has 
been  declared,  by  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  our 
country's  writers, — himself  a  poet; — who  had  proved 
all  the  pangs  of  heart-sickness  from  hope  deferred 
and  hope  disappointed,  which  he  has  so  adni'rably 
expressed  in  a  couplet  of  sterling  English,  excelhng 
€ven  the  celebrated  original  in  the  third  satire  of 
Juvenal : — 

'  Hand  facile  emergunt,  quorum  virtutibus  obslat 
Res  angusta  domi." 

*  This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confess'd, 
-SIov."  rises  wortli  by  poverty  depress'd." 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 


32  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

To  return, — it  has  been  declared  by  Dr.  Johnson 
that  booksellers  are  the  best  patrons.  Both  sayings 
may  be  equally  true,  though  neither  of  them  is 
strictly  so.  It  is  as  purely  figurative  to  call  a  book- 
seller an  author's  patron  as  to  say  that  he  drinks  his 
wine  out  of  an  author's  scull.  In  reality — nay,  it 
cannot  in  the  common  course  of  things  be  otherwise 
—just  in  proportion  as  a  writers  lucubrations  bring 
profit  to  his  bookseller,  the  bookseller  will  be  liberal 
in  remunerating  his  talents, — for  the  strongest  rea- 
son in  the  world — to  secure  his  own  interest.  That 
the  market-price  of  the  greatest  works  of  literature, 
of  poetry  in  particular,  should  be  very  incom- 
mensurate to  the  toil,  the  time,  and  the  expense  of 
thought  required  to  perfect  them,  is  a  circumstance 
rather  to  be  lamented  than  complained  of,  and  rather 
to  be  endured  with  patience  than  lamented.  The 
evil,  if  it  be  an  evil,  is  irremediable  ;  and  however  it 
may  be  alleviated  by  the  multiplication  of  readers, 
and  the  taste  for  elegant  and  magnificent  books, — 
though  the  latter  factitious  taste  is  nearly  obsolete^ 
and  volumes  of  compendious  literature  are  now  the 
rage, — yet  must  authors  be  for  ever  excluded  from 
the  hope  of  reaping  eaual  pecuniary  benefit  from  the 
offspring  of  their  minds  with  first-rate  professors  of 
the  sister  arts.  The  world,  which  loves  to  v/onder, 
wonders  less  at  Madame  Catalani  receiving  a  prince's 
ransom  for  a  few  pulsations  of  breath, — by  whi.ch 
she  can  throw  a  whole  theatre  into  ecstasy ;  or  the 
iate  Benjamin  West  hesitating  to  accept  ten  thousand 
pounds  for  a  single  picture, — than  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  should  have  been  paid  five  hundred  for  the  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel,  and  from  one  to  two,  from  two 
to  tliree,  and  from  tln-ee  to  four  thousand  pounds  for 
so  niany  other  ballad- like  romances  in  succession  : — 
prices  unprecedented  in  poetical  finance,  and  not 
likely  to  be  given  again  till  another  Sir  Walter  shall 
arise  to  witch  the  world  with  noble  penmanship.* 

*  The  circumstances  respectin;?  Mr.  West  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  ar« 


THE    PRE-EMINENCr,    OF    POETRY.  33 

I  will  never  degrade  poetry  so  low  as  to  admit, 
even  for  argument's  sake,  that  the  force  of  genius 
displayed  in  any  of  the  five  compositions  alluded  to 
is  no  greater  than  Catalan!  or  West  were  required 
to  put  forth  to  obtain  proportionate  remuneration. 
ft  would  be  making  sounds  and  colours  equal  to 
thoughts  and  feelings  to  allow  this.  For  myself,  I 
would  rather  have  written  "  the  last  words  of  Mar- 
mion"  for  love  (as  the  saying  is),  than  have  pocketed 
all  the  coin  that  has  been  poured  out  upon  shop- 
counters,  at  box-lobby  doors,  and  in  concert-rooms, 
for  setting,  singing,  playing,  and  selling  them,  from 
Berwick-on-'fYveed  to  Penzance.  Nor  is  this  vain 
boasting ;  for  to  have  written  those  few  lines,  1  must 
have  been  possessed  of  the  power  of  him  who  did 
write  them ;  and  then  I  could  have  envied  no  man 
the  profit  which  he  might  professionally  acquire  from 
my  labours.  It  is  enough  to  make  a  poor  poet  burst 
his^pleen,  to  read  the  memoirs  of  eminent  musicians 
and  painters,  and  contrast  them  with  those  of  his 
more  illustrious  predecessors.  While  the  former 
have  been  courted,  enriched,  and  ennobled  by  pon- 
tiffs and  potentates,  the  latter  have  languished  in 
poverty,  and  died  in  despair.  Will  any  man  deny 
that  the  poems  of  Milton,  as  productions  of  genius, 
are  equal  to  the  pictures  of  Rubens  ?  Yet  the  artist's 
pencil  supported  him  in  princely  splendour;  the 
poet's  muse  could  not  procure,  what  even  his  ene- 
mies would  have  furnished  to  him,  gratuitously,  in 
a  dungeon,  bread  and  water.  Poets  might  be  per- 
mitted to  say,  that  music,  painting,  and  sculpture  may 
he  appreciated  in  this  world,  and  recompensed  by  the 
things  of  it,  but  poetry  cannot;  its  price  is  above 
wealth,  and  its  honours  are  those  which  sovereigns 
cannot  confer.  But  they  are  generally  posthumous. 
Like  Egyptian  kings,  however  praised  while  living, 

adopted  from  commoa  report ;  but,  however  incorrect  they  may  be,  tb« 
impression  made  on  the  public  mind,  on  the  presuinptioji  of  their  truth| 
is  sufficient  for  the  author's  argument  here. 


34  THK    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

it  is  on  the  issue  of  their  trials  after  death  that  the 
most  exalted  have  pyramids  decreed  to  them ;  and 
it  is  then  that  even  the  most  admired  and  feared 
may  be  condemned  to  obloquy,  and  abandoned  to 
oblivion. 


Poetry  compared  with  Eloquence^  History,  and 
Philosophy. 

In  reference  to  other  species  of  literature,  it  is  not 
my  purpose  to  present  them  in  any  lengthened,  much 
less  any  disparaging,  contrast  with  poetry.  Elo- 
quence, history,  philosophy,  must  consider  poetry 
as  their  sister  by  blood  (not  merely  by  alliance,  as 
in  the  case  of  music,  painting,  and  sculpture),  rather 
than  their  rival, — elder,  indeed,  than  all,  yet  in  per- 
petual youth  ;  the  nurse  of  each,  yet  more  beautiful 
than  either  of  them  in  her  loveliest  attire.  The 
most  perfect  models  of  eloquence  may  be  found  in 
the  writings  of  the  epic  and  dramatic  poets ;  also  the 
most  authentic  facts  of  history,  embellished,  not  be- 
yond truth,  but  agreeable  to  truth ;  and  the  purest 
morals  of  philosophy,  set  forth  with  lights  and 
shadows  v/hich  transform  them  from  pretended 
mysteries  and  pompous  truisms,  into  clear,  per- 
manent, and  influential  realities.* 


*  Milton's  splendid  view  of  the  intellectual  glories  of  ancient  Greece 
may  be  advantageously  quoted  here  :— 

"  There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand  ;  and  various-measured  verse, 
^olian  charms  and  Dorian  lyric  odes, 
And  his,  who  gave  them  breath,  but  higher  sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  call'd, 
Whose  poem  Phcebus  challenged  for  his  own  : 
Thence  what  the  lofty,  grave  tragedians  taught 
111  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  life, 
High  actions,  and  hi(;h  pas-^ons  best  describing: 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY.  35 

The  first  of  these  assertions  will  probably  be 
admitted, — that  eloquence  has  frequently  been  pre- 
sented to  as  great  (if  not  greater)  advantage,  in  verse 
as  in  prose ;  ancient  oratory,  in  comparison  with 
ancient  poetry,  has  exercised  small  influence  over 
the  minds,  manners,  and  characters  of  succeeding 
ages.  Cicero,  all  perfect  as  he  is,  in  his  own  unri- 
valled style  of  prose,  as  numerous  as  the  richest 
verse, — and  Demosthenes  himself, — of  the  effects  of 
whose  speeches  as  "fulmined"  from  the  living  voice 
over  the  heads  of  audiences  that  could  criticise  every 
syllable,  even  v.'hen  Philip  was  at  the  gates, — we 
must  necessarily  form  very  imperfect  ideas  from 
reading  them  in  a  dead  language,  addressed  only  to 
the  eye,  for  the  sounds,whatever  be  our  pronunciation, 
are  little  more  than  imaginary ;  Cicero  and  Demos- 
thenes have  exercised  no  such  power  over  posterity 
as  Homer  and  Virgil  have  done,  though  the  diction 
of  these  lies  under  yet  a  heavier  impracticability 
of  modern  utterance,  from  the  loss  of  the  true  use 
of  quantity,  as  well  as  articulation,  in  the  antique 
tongues. 

In  history,  as  a  matter  of  f^ct,  whether  creditable 
to  the  eccentricity  of  human  taste  or  not,  it  will 
hardly  be  disputed  that  Xenophon  and  Thucydides 
have  failed  to  command  the  attention  which  (not 
without  a  cause  lying  deep  in  our  very  nature)  has 
been  won  by  Anacreon  and  Horace.  But  even  on 
its  own  ground,  history,  in  some  respects,  as  the 
transmitter  of  knowledge  concerning  the  past,  is 
compelled  to  vail  to  poetry.  Not  that  the  records 
of  actual  events  can  be  so  properly  conveyed  in 
verse  (th(^||}i   bards   in  all  nations  were  tti?  first 


Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair, 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratie, 
Shook  the  arsenal  and  fulmined  over  Greece 
To  Maredon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne." 

Paradise  Regained,  look  !▼. 


36  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

chroniclers)  as  they  may  be,  through  all  their  re- 
membered details,  in  prose  ;  but,  since  all  memorials 
must  be  necessarily  imperfect,  and  more  or  less 
mixed  up  with  error, — by  the  latter  we  may  be  abso- 
lutely deceived,  taking-  the  statements  for  pure  truth; 
while,  by  the  former,  we  must  be  left  proportion- 
ately in  ignorance  of  some  things  needful  to  be 
known,  to  form  a  correct  judgment  of  great  and 
complicated  transactions.  Now  the  defects  and 
errors  of  poets  concerning  subjects  of  history  are 
not  in  themselves  liable  to  mislead,  because  the 
details  are  never  exhibited  as  literal  verities,  but 
avowedly  as  things  which  might  have  happened 
under  certain  circumstances,  in  cases  where  what 
really  did  happen  is  no  longer  known.  This  is  ex- 
emplified by  the  narrative  poems  of  the  Siege  of 
Troy,  and  the  Voyages  of  Ulysses  and  iEneas, — 
events  of  which  no  other  history  exists ;  and  though 
few  will  doubt  that  for  much  of  the  romance  in  the 
Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  and  the  ^neid  there  was  no 
foundation  in  truth,  nobody  will  mistake  the  palpa- 
ble fictions  for  facts.  In  history,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  difficult,  nay,  impossible,  to  distinguish  between 
facts  and  fictions,  when  both  rest  upon  the  same 
authority,  and  there  happens  to  be  nothing  in  the 
nature  of  things  to  enable  us  to  separate  the  one 
from  the  other,  both  being  in  the  abstract  alike  prob- 
able. But  this  would  lead  us  into  too  wide  a  field 
of  discussion,  at  present.  It  may,  however,  be 
safely  assumed,  that  a  large  proportion  of  ancient 
history,  especially  that  of  the  early  periods,  is  as 
fabulous  as  the  mythology  of  the  gods,  ^^^ch  usually 
precedes  the  traditions  of  the  men  thiPfirst  made 
and  then  worshipped  them. 

Poetry,  in  one  sense,  builds  up  the  ruins  of  his- 
tory, fallen  otherwise  into  irrecoverable  dilapidation. 
From  the  epic,  dramatic,  satiric,  didactic,  and  even 
from  the  lyric  remains  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans^ 


THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETKY.  37 

we  learn  more  than  historyn  were  it  sevenfold  more 
perfect  than  it  is  in  the  records  of  great  men  and 
great  deeds,  could  ever  have  communicated  concern- 
ing the  state  of  society  in  old  times  and  in/amous 
lands.  From  the  former  we  derive  almost  *all  that 
we  know  of  ancient  manners,  customs,  arts,  sciences, 
amusements,  food,  dress,  and  those  numberless  small 
circumstances  which  make  up  the  business  and  lei- 
sure, the  colour,  form,  and  character  of  life.  Poetry, 
"in  a  word,  shows  us  men,  not  only  as  kings  and 
legislators,  v/arriors  and  philosophers,  tyrants  and 
slaves,  actors  and  sufferers  upon  the  the  public  stage, 
— but  men  in  all  their  domestic  relationships, — as 
they  are  in  themselves,  as  they  appear  in  their  fami- 
lies, and  as  they  influence  their  little  neighbour- 
hoods. Nay,  even  in  the  palace,  the  hall  of  justice, 
the  field  of  battle,  the  academic  grove,  poetry  ex- 
hibits man  in  portraiture, — more  like  himself  indi- 
vidually (so  as  his  fellows  in  all  ages  may  personally 
sympathize  with  him),  than  history  can  shov>'  him  in 
any  of  the  artificial  groups  amid  which  he  appears 
in  his  assumed  character, — a  mask  among  masks. 

Take  poetry  and  history  upon  the  same  favourite 
ground, — war.  Homer  may  not  have  recorded  the 
actual  events  at  the  siege  of  Troy,  and  the  disas- 
ters of  Greece  in  consequence  of  the  anger  of 
Achilles;  but,  with  all  his  noble  exaggeration  of 
the  strength,  speed,  prowess,  and  other  qualities 
of  his  heroes,  the  splendour  of  their  arms,  and  the 
suraptuousness  of  their  state,  he  has  undoubtedly 
delineated  from  the  Hfe  the  people  of  his  own  and 
the  age  before  him  ;  so  that  we  learn  more  concern- 
ing the  warriors,  minstrels,  sages,  ladies,  and  all 
classes  of  human  society,  from  the  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey  alone,  than  from  the  most  faithful,  intelli- 
gent, and  least  romantic  of  the  historians  of  the 
same  and  succeeding  periods,  before  the  fashions 
of  those  strange  tunes  were  passed  away.  Poetry 
is  thus  the  illuminator  of  history,  the  paths  of  which, 


4 


38  THE    PRE-EMINENCE    OF    POETRY. 

in  early  times,  would  have  been  dark  indeed,  with- 
out this  "  light  from   heaven." 

In  regard  to  philosophy  and  jurisprudence,  it  may 
be  remarked,  that  Pythagoras,  Solon,  Lycurgus,  and 
Socrates  himself,  occasionally  employed  poetry  to 
dictate  laws,  with  oracular  authority,  and  to  enforce 
morals  with  the  sanction  of  a  language  like  that  of 
the  gods.  Plato  was  the  most  poetical  of  writers 
in  prose,  because,  it  has  been  said,  he  could  not 
excel  Homer  in  verse,  and  at  the  head  of  one  or  the* 
other  species  of  literature  he  had  determined  to 
be ;  thus  acknowledging  the  pre-eminence  of  that 
which  he  did  not  adopt,  by  making  that  which  he 
did  approach  as  near  to  it  as  possible.  It  is  true, 
that  he  would  banish  poets  from  his  commonwealth  • 
first,  however,  crowning  them  with  bays.  But  there 
were  immunities  under  his  system  of  polity  which 
rendered  it  no  disgrace  for  the  divinest  of  human 
arts  to  be  forbidden ;  and  in  his  other  works  he  does 
honour  to  himself,  by  giving  to  it  the  honour  due. 
I  palliate  not  the  abominations  of  pagan  poetry, 
many  of  them  too  revolting  to  be  named  ;  but  these 
were  the  perversions  of  what  in  itself  is  most  excel- 
lent, and  in  proportion  to  its  excellence  most  per- 
nicious when  perverted.  But  pagan  poetry,  with 
all  its  sins,  has  survived  pagan  philosophy  with  alJ 
its  merits. 

Permanence  of  Poetry. 

Poetry,  the  most  perfect  form  of  literature,  which 
s  all  that  I  contend  for  in  this  essay,  is  also  the  most 
enduring;  the  relics  of  ancient  verse  considerably 
exceed,  in  proportion  to  the  bulk  of  the  original 
materials,  tiiose  of  ancient  prose,  especially  in 
ethics.  Most  of  the  philosophers  are  but  names, 
and  their  systems  traditions,  at  this  day.  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  Seneca  alone  have  survived 
in  sufficient  bulk,  to  show  what  thev  were ;  giants 


THE    PRE-EMINKNCK    OF    POETRY.  39 

in  intellect,  but  babes  in  knowledge  of  the  best  things 
(the  pure  spiritual  principles  that  teach  the  love  of 
God  and  the  love  of  man),  in  comparison  with  the 
humblest  Christian  who  can  read  his  Bible,  and 
know,  from  its  influence  upon  his  heart,  his  con- 
science, and  his  life,  that  it  is  true.  Had  all  the 
writings  of  Greek  and  Roman  moralists  been  pre- 
served, they  would  but  have  exhibited  the  impossi- 
bility of  man  by  searching  to  find  out  God,  without 
a  distinct  revelation  from  himself.  They  would 
nave  been,  in  many  respects,  splendid  piles  of  error, 
on  which  eloquence,  argument,  all  the  power,  pene- 
tration, and  subtilty  of  minds  of  the  highest  order 
A'ere  expended  in  comparatively  vain  speculations ; 
cesembling  their  ttmples, — prodigies  of  human  art, 
science,  taste,  elegance,  sublimity, — all  that  could 
show  the  immortality  of  man  even  in  his  mortal 
works,  but  dedicated  to  false  gods,  to  idols,— the 
wisest  among  them  not  knowing  that  an  idol,  whe- 
ther ideal  or  material,  the  idol  of  tlie  sage  or  of  the 
clown,  is  nothing  in  the  world.  Now,  in  the  sys- 
tems alluded  to,  whatever  was  false  and  evil  was 
!aid  down  as  true  and  good,  and  being  mingled  with 
whatever  was  really  good  and  true,  became  of  more 
perilous  malignity  than  the  extravagances  and  atro- 
cities of  poetry,  which  too  often  did  not  even  pretend 
to  regard  good  manners ;  yet  of  which  the  greater 
part,  preserved  from  the  devastations  of  time,  abound- 
ing, as  it  does,  with  faults  and  errors,  contains  les- 
sons without  number  and  unequalled  in  form  and 
beauty,  whereby  the  mind  may  be  enlarged,  the 
noblest  passions  moved  towards  the  noblest  objects, 
and  the  imagination  chastened  by  morality,  clear, 
simple,  practical,  and  radiantly  contrasted  with  the 
complex,  subtle,  dark,  bewildering  notions  of  most 
of  the  philosophers. 

Here  I  conclude  this  rhapsody,  as  some  may  deem 
it,  on  the  pre-eminence  of  poetry ;  asking  only  for 
it  that  indulgence  which  I  should  be  most  willing 


40  WHAT    IS     POETICAL. 

to  grant,  for  myself,  to  any  champion  of  music, 
painting-,  sculpture,  eloquence,  history,  or  i)hiloso- 
phy,  who,  in  this  place  or  any  other  theatre  where 
liberal  sentiment  may  be  freely  expressed,  should 
plead  for  the  pre-eminence  of  his  favourite  art  over 
mine. 


LECTURE  II. 


WHAT  IS   POETICAL, 


The  nature,  or  rather  the  essence,  of  poetry,  1 
cannot  define,  and  shall  therefore  not  attempt  it; 
but  I  think  that  I  may  illustrate  the  subject,  and 
show,  at  least,  ivhat  is  poetical,  by  examples,  which 
(if  I  succeed  in  making  mine  understood)  anybody 
may  multiply  at  pleasure,  and  employ  them  as  tests 
of  whatever  assumes  to  be  poetry,  by  its  structure, 
style,  or  colouring. 

That  which  is  highest,  purest,  loveliest,  and  most 
excellent  to  the  eye  or  to  the  mind,  in  reference  to 
any  object,  either  of  the  senses  or  the  imagination, 
is  poetical.  Poetry  presents  the  most  comprehensive 
view  of  all  its  subjects,  in  their  fairest  shape,  and 
most  natural  symmetry,  after  having  divested  them 
of  whatever  is  little,  mean,  or  unattractive  ;  softening 
asperities,  blending  discordances,  sinking  superflui- 
ties, harmonizing  all  parts,  and  placing  the  whole  in 
such  connexion,  due  distance,  and  convenient  hght, 
as  shall  at  once  satisfy  the  understanding  with  what 
is  revealed,  excite  the  imaginationtowards  that  which 
is  hidden,  and  prompt  the  curiosity  to  follow  out  all 
that  is  implied  and  consequential.  For  it  is  not  alone 
the  glowing  images,  the  bold  conceptions,  the  felici- 
tous language,  and  the  sublime,  terrific,  or  delightful 
©motions,  wilh  which  the  author  captivates,  enchaii\s, 


WHAT  IS   I'oK/ncAi,.  41 

or  surpris«:.s,  both  listeners  :iud  loiterers;  jt  is  not 
these  alone  which  constitute  the  charm,  and  secure 
the  dominion  of  [)oetry.  No;  it  is  principally  that 
secret,  undefined,  and  inconiniunicable  art  by  which 
«hc  author  works  at  once  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  sets  the  reader's  mind  at  work  upon  itself,  witli 
thick-corning  fancies,  of  which  those  lent  by  the  poet 
are  but  the  precursors  :  so  that  the  longer  he  dwells, 
and  the  oftencr  the  man  of  right  feeling  returns  to 
the  strain  that  first  transported  him,  after  the  novelty 
and  effervescence  are  past,  he  will  find  his  own  fancy, 
his  own  affections,  his  own  intelligence,  exercised 
anew,  and  not  seldom  in  a  new  way,  v/ith  the  theme 
and  its  embellishments;  which,  being  nature  and 
truth  (however  figuratively  invested),  will  no  more 
weary  contemplation  than  the  most  familiar  scenes 
of  the  universe  tire  the  sight.  For,  if  there  be  one 
characteristic  of  poetry  which  exalts  it  above  every 
other  species  of  literature,  as  well  as  distinguishes 
it  from  the  most  refined  of  manual  arts,  it  is  this, — 
that,  whatever  it  may  be  in  its  essence,  genuine  poetry 
is,  in  its  effect,  the  highest  of  all  mental,  imaginative, 
and  passionate  enjoyments,  of  which  the  whole  pro- 
cess is  independent  of  the  senses,  I  hesitate  not  to 
affirm,  that  no  external  excitement  whatever  does 
necessarily  contribute  towards  the  pleasure  derived 
from  it,  for  even  the  metre  is  rather  addressed  to  the 
mind  than  to  the  ear,  and  is,  indeed,  more  frequently 
communicated  through  the  eye  (which,  however, 
merely  takes  in  the  visible  signs  of  the  hidden  mean- 
ing), than  either  by  reading  aloud,  or  hearkening  to 
another  who  reads.  I  appeal  to  those  present  who 
are  most  skilled  in  the  delicacies  of  rhythmical 
periods,  whether  any  recitation  of  verse,'  by  the 
most  accomplished  declaimer,  can  reach  the  en- 
chantment of  the  numbers  of  true  poetry,  which  a 
person  of  fine  nerve  and  pure  taste  can  conceive  in 
the  silence  of  thought,  while  he  looks  upon  the  page 
that  records  them.  Do  not  the  harmonies  of  Sluik- 
D 


42  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

speare  himself  ring  more  melodiously  in  remem- 
brance than  they  were  ever  made  to  sound  in  reality 
from  the  lips  of  a  Kemble  or  a  Siddons'' 

Truth  a  Test  of  Poetry. 

But  I  am  to  endeavour,  by  illustration  of  what  is 
poetical,  to  enable  those  who  choose  to  follow  the 
same  course  of  analogy,  to  judge  for  themselves  of 
any  composition  in  verse,  whether  it  can  justly  lay 
claim  to  the  former  epithet.  In  the  first  place,  the 
test  of  true  poetry  is  the  test  of  truth  itself.  Two 
Mongol-Tartar  chiefs,  from  the  borders  of  China, 
some  years  ago,  came  to  St.  Petersburgh  to  acquaint 
themselves  with  the  learning  and  arts  of  Europeans  ; 
bringing  this  recommendation,  that  they  were  the 
best  and  most  sensible  men  belonging  to  their  tribe. 
Among  other  occupations  they  were  engaged  to 
assist  a  German  clergyman,  resident  in  that  city,  in 
a  translation  of  St.  Matthew's  Gospel  into  their 
native  tongue.  This  work  was  carried  on  for  many 
months,  and  day  by  day  they  were  accustomed  to 
collate,  with  the  minister,  such  portions  of  the 
common  task  as  one,  the  other,  or  all  three  had  com- 
pleted; in  the  course  of  v»'hich,  they  would  often 
ask  questions  respecting  circumstances  and  allu- 
sions, as  well  as  doctrines  and  sentiments,  contained 
in  the  book,  which,  to  be  faithful  interpreters,  they 
deemed  right  to  understand  well  for  themselves 
beyond  the  literal  text.  On  the  last  day,  when  the 
version  was  presumed  to  be  as  perfect  as  the  parties 
could  render  it,  the  two  saisangs  (or  chiefs)  sat 
nilent  but  thoughtful,  when  the  manuscript  lay  closed 
upon  the  table.  Observing  something  unusual  in 
their  manner,  their  friend  inquired  whether  they  had 
any  questions  to  ask.  Tliey  answered,  "  None ;" 
and  then,  to  tlie  delight  and  amazement  of  the  good 
man, — who  had  carefully  avoided,  during  their  past 
intercourse,  any  semblance  of  wishing  to  proseiyte 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  43 

them, — they  both  declared  themselves  converts  to 
the  religion  of  that  book.  So  they  proved  in  the 
sequel,  but  with  that  part  of  the  history,  though 
exceedingly  interesting,  we  have  not  to  do  at  present. 
One  remark  which  the  elder  made,  and  the  younger 
confirmed,  has  caused  this  reference  to  them.  He 
said,  "  We  have  lived  in  ignorance,  and  been  led 
by  blind  guides,  without  finding  rest.  We  have  been 
zealous  followers  of  the  doctrines  of  Shakdshamani 
(the  Fo  of  the  Chinese),  and  have  studied  the  books 
containing  them  attentively ;  but  the  more  v/e 
studied,  the  more  obscure  they  appeared  to  us,  and 
our  hearts  remained  empty.  But  in  perusing  the 
doctrines  of  Jesus  Christ,  it  is  just  the  contrary  ;  the 
more  we  meditate  upon  his  words,  the  more  intelli- 
gible they  become ;  and  at  length  it  seems  as  if 
Jesus  were  talking  with  us." 

Thus  it  is  universally  with  truth  and  error.  All 
falsehood  is  the  counterfeit  of  truth,  and  superficially 
viewed  may  pass  for  the  reality ;  but  in  proportion  as 
it  is  examined,  its  pretensions  disappear,  and  the 
cheat  becomes  manifest.  On  the  contrary,  from  our 
hasty,  negligent,  or  imperfect  perception  of  it,  truth 
may  sometimes  be  mistaken  for  imposture  ;  but  when 
resolutely,  patiently,  honestly  searched  into,  it  grad- 
ually grows  clearer,  simpler,  fuller,  and  at  last  per- 
fect. The  bodily  eye  coming  out  of  long  darkness 
into  sudden  light,  relapses  from  infirmitjr, — I  might 
say,  in  self-defence, — into  momentary  blindness,  but, 
soon  accommodating  itself  *^o  the  splendour  around, 
all  becomes  natural,  agreer.ble,  and  right ;  while 
new  discoveries  of  what  was  utterly  hidden,  or 
unsuspected,  are  made,  from  instant  to  instant,  till 
the  sight  has  recovered  its  strength  and  penetration 
to  comprehend  the  whole  scene  and  all  its  circum- 
stances. Try  poetry  by  this  standard:  that  which 
wearies,  on  acquaintance,  is  fals^ ;  that  which  ini- 
px-oves  is  true. 

The   rule   of  Longinus,  respecting  the  sublime. 


44  WHAT    JS    POETICAL. 

sanctions  this  mode  of  proof: — "He  that  hath  a 
competent  share  of  natural  and  acquired  taste  may 
easily  distinguish  the  value  of  any  performance  from 
a  bare  recital  of  it.  If  he  finds  that  it  transports  not 
his  soul,  nor  exalts  his  thoughts, — that  it  calls  not 
up  into  his  mind  ideas  more  enlarged  than  what  the 
sounds  convey,  but,  on  the  contrary,  its  dignity  lessens 
and  declines, — he  may  conclude,  that  whatevei 
pierces  no  deeper  than  the  ear  cannot  be  the  true 
sublime.  That,  on  the  other  hand,  is  grand  and 
lofty,  which  the  more  we  consider,  the  greater  ideas  we 
conceive  of  it ;  whose  force  we  cannot  possibly  with- 
stand, which  sinks  immediately  deep,  and  makes 
such  an  impression  on  the  mind  as  cannot  easily  be 
effaced  :  in  a  word,  we  may  pronounce  that  sublime, 
beautiful,  and  true  which  permanently  pleases,  and 
takes  generally  with  all  sorts  of  men." — Long.  sect. 
10.   Smithes  translation. 

We  conclude,  then,  that  poetry  must  be  true, 
natural,  and  a'ffecting;  nay,  in  its  most  artificial 
array,  that  of  pure  fiction,  it  must  be  the  fiction  that 
represents  truth,  and  which  is  truth, — truth  in  the 
spirit,  though  not  in  the  letter.  The  illustrations 
which  1  am  about  to  produce  will,  1  hope,  show  the 
poetical  aspects  of  certain  things, — sufficiently  com- 
monplace to  be  easily  understood,  yet  capable  of  the 
highest  ideality,  by  circumstance  and  association. 

The  Poetical  in  Objects  of  Sight. 

I  begin  with  an  ancient  apologue.  At  Athens,  1 
believe,  on  the  completion  of  the  temple  of  Minerva, 
a  statue  of  the  goddess  was  wanted  to  occupy  the 
crowning  point  of  the  edifice.  Two  of  the  greatest 
artists  produced  what  each  deemed  his  masterpiece. 
One  of  these  figures  (to  use  an  ambiguous  phrase, 
[or  lack  of  a  better)  was  the  size  of  life,  admirably 
designed  and  exquisitely  finished  ;  the  other  was  of 
amazonian  Ktature.  and  so  boldly  chiselled,  that  it 


WHAT    IS  POETICAL.  45 

looked  more  like  masonry  than  sculpture.  The 
eyes  of  all  were  attracted  by  the  first,  and  turned 
away  in  contempt  from  the  second.  That,  therefore, 
was  adopted,  and  this  rejected,  almost  with  resent- 
ment, as  though  an  insult  had  been  offered  to  the 
judgment  of  a  discerning  public.  In  this,  as  in 
similar  cases,  those  who  were  nearest  to  both  were 
presumed  to  be  the  best  connoisseurs  of  the  merits 
of  each ;  and  as  they  pronounced  very  decisively 
against  the  one  and  in  favour  of  the  other,  the  mul- 
titude in  the  rear,  who  saw  neither  so  much  symme- 
try in  the  minor,  nor  so  much  deformity  in  the  major, 
yielded  to  authority.  The  selected  image  was  ac- 
cordingly borne  in  triumph  to  the  place  which  it  was 
to  occupy,  in  the  presence  of  applauding  thousands  , 
but  as  it  receded  from  their  upturned  eyes, — all,  all 
at  once  a-gaze  upon  it, — the  thunders  unaccountably 
died  away,  a  general  misgiving  ran  through  every 
bosom,  and  when  it  was  at  length  fixed,  the  mob 
themselves  stood  like  statues,  as  silent  and  as 
petrified ;  for  the  miniature  figure,  being  diminished 
to  a  point,  was  scarcely  recognised,  except  as  an 
unsightly  protuberance. 

Of  course  the  idol  of  the  hour  was  soon  clamoured 
down,  as  rationally  as  it  had  been  cried  up ;  and  its 
dishonoured  rival,  with  no  good-will,  and  no  good 
looks,  on  the  part  of  the  chagrined  populace,  was 
reared  in  its  stead.  This,  however,  was  no  sooner 
done  than  the  rude-hewn  mass,  that  before  scarcely 
appeared  to  bear  even  the  human  form,  assumed  the 
divinity  which  it  represented, — being  so  perfectly 
proportioned  to  the  dimensions  of  the  building,  and 
to  the  elevation  on  which  it  stood,  that  it  seemed  as 
though  Pallas  herself  had  alighted  upon  the  pinnacle 
of  her  temple, — in  person  to  receive  the  homage  of 
her  worshippers  at  its  dedication. 

Now  that  aspect  of  the  giant-statue,  at  the  due 
distance  from  which  it  was  intended  to  be  contem- 
plated,— that  aspect  was  the  poetry  of  that  object 


46  WHAT    IS     POETICAL. 

In  the  rough  reality  there  existed  the  fine  ideal  of 
the  sculptor's  thoug-ht,  though  the  ordinary  eye,  being 
too  near,  could  not  discern  it  on  the  ground,  till,  being 
exhibited  where  the  whole  could  be  seen  in  its 
whole  effect  (not  piecemeal,  or  with  any  necessary 
imperfections),  the  immeasurable  superiority  of  the 
well  adapted  work  over  its  faultless  but  inappropriate 
rival  was  immediately  recognised.  Poetry  thus 
places  its  subjects,  whatever  be  the  theme,  where 
all  their  beauty,  grandeur,  or  excellence  may  be 
clearly  discovered,  and  where,  at  the  same* time,  all 
their  homeliness  and  commonplace  associations  are 
excluded.  This  is  poetry  to  the  eye.  There  is  also 
poetry  to  the  ear.     Hearken  to  it. 

The  Poetical  in  Sounds. 

I  submit  the  preamble  to  Dryden's  Essay  on 
Dramatic  Poesie : — 

"It  was  that  memorable  day,  in  the  first  summer 
of  the  late  war,  when  our  navy  engaged  the  Dutch, 
— a  day  wherein  the  two  most  mighty  and  best 
appointed  fleets  which  any  age  had  ever  seen  dis- 
puted the  command  of  the  greater  half  of  the  globe, 
the  commerce  of  nations,  and  the  riches  of  the  uni- 
verse. While  the  vast  floating  bodies,  on  either 
side,  move^  against  each  other  in  parallel  lines,  and 
our  countrymen,  under  the  happy  conduct  of  his 
royal  highness,  went  breaking,  by  little  and  little, 
into  the  line  of  the  enemies,  the  noise  of  the  cannon 
from  both  navies  reached  our  ears  about  the  city,  so 
that  all  men  being  alarmed  with  it,  and  in  dreadful 
suspense  of  the  event  ivhich  ive  kneiu  ivas  then  de- 
ciding, every  one  went,  following  the  sound,  as  his 
fancy  led  him  ;  and  leavins^  the  town  almost  empty, 
some  took  towards  the  Park,  some  cross  the  river, 
others  down  it ;  all  seeking  the  noise  in  the  depth  of 
the  silence. 

"Among  the  rest  it  was  the  fortune  of  Eugenius, 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  47 

Crites,  Lisideus,  and  Neander  to  be  in  company 
together." 

I  dwell  not  on  the  magnificent  exordium  of  this 
passage,  or  the  full  organ  harmony  of  period,  the 
manly  English, — I  had  almost  said  his  own  English 
English,  so  purely,  so  radically  vernacular  it  is, — 
which  distinguishes  the  style  of  Dryden ;  I  dwell 
not  on  these,  though,  in  all  the  writings  of  this  great 
master,  not  less  admirable  in  prose  than  in  verse, 
there  will  hardly  be  found  a  paragraph  of  equal 
power  and  impression  wit^i  this,  and  the  context 
which  I  shall  presently  quote  :  I  dwell  not  on  these, 
but  I  call  the  earnest  attention  of  my  audience  to 
the  simplest  phrases  in  the  whole, — "  the  noise  of 
cannon  from  both  navies  reached  our  ears  about  the 
city."  The  fulness  of  meaning  expressed,*  and  the 
unutterable  meanings  implied,  in  these  few  and  plain 
words,  cannot  be  too  much  admired.  "  The  force  of 
(language)  could  no  further  go,"  to  parody  a  noble  line 
of  his  own ;  yet  a  Westminster  schoolboy  of  that  day, 
writing  to  his  sister  in  the  country  on  the  occasion, 
might  have  used  the  very  same.  Examine  the  sen- 
tence. Here  is  "  the  city,"  and  there  are  "  both  navies," 
out  of  sight,  but  giving  note  of  their  proximity  by  low 
deaf  sounds,  which  would  not  have  disturbed  the  chil- 
dren at  play  in  the  streets,  but  which,  reaching  "  our 
ears," — the  narrator  is  one  who  repeats  what  he  him 
self  heard,  saw,  felt,  and  did, — which,  reaching  "  our 
ears,"  threw  all  the  adult  population  of  the  metropolis 
(half  a  million  souls)  into  anxiety,  fear,  and  conster- 
nation. Let  us  proceed  : — "  All  men  being  alarmed 
with  it,  and  in  dreadful  suspense  of  the  event  which 
we  knew  was  then  deciding,  every  one  viex\t,folloiv~ 
ing  the  sounds  as  his  fancy  led  him."  The  latter 
most  picturesque  and  imaginative  circumstance  is 
repeated  at  the  end  of  the  clause,  in  a  new  and 
striking  form  of  words, — "all  seeking  the  noise  in 
the  depth  of  silence." 

Thus,  amid  the  din  and  hubbub,  the  hurry,  con 


48  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

fusion,  and  whirl  of  men,  horses,  and  carriages,  at 
high  noon,  at  'change  time,  a  few  shght  percussions 
of  the  air  awakened  such  intensity  of  interest  and 
curiosity,  that  the  town  was,  in  a  little  time,  left 
"  almost  empty."  And  what  occasioned  this  1  The 
inevitable  association  of  ideas  ;  the  poetry  of  sounds, 
which,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  would  have 
been  disregarded  by  the  ear,  so  that  if  a  man  had 
asked  his  neighbour  whether  he  heard  them,  the 
other  would  have  had  to  liste7i  before  he  could 
answer  the  question.  The  firing  of  the  Park  and 
Tower  guns,  on  a  royal  birth-day,  made  a  thousand 
times  louder  reports,  yet  nobody  was  ever  alarmed 
or  startled  for  more  than  a  moment :  now,  however, 
because,  by  these  faint  intonations,  they  knew  what 
an  event  was  "  then  deciding,"  but  knew  not  what 
that  decision,  or  its  consequences  to  themselves, 
might  be, — all  the  cares,  the  business,  the  dissipa- 
tion of  life  were  suspended ;  and  the  throne  of  the 
monarch  might  be  said  to  tremble  beneath  him  at 
every  repetition  of  sounds,  scarcely  more  audible 
than  the  beating  of  the  hearts  of  those  who  were 
listening  to  them.  Let  us  seek  the  result  in  a  few 
lines  of  the  sequel. 

"  Taking  then  a  barge,  which  the  servant  of  Lisi- 
deus  had  provided  for  them,  they  made  haste  to 
shoot  the  bridge,  and  left  behind  them  that  great  fall 
of  waters  which  hindered  them  from  hearing  what  they 
desired:  after  which,  having  disengaged  themselves 
from  many  vessels  which  rode  at  anchor  in  the 
Thames,  and  almost  blocked  up  the  passage  to  Green- 
wich, they  ordered  the  watermen  to  let  fall  their 
oars  more  gently  ;  and  then,  every  one  favouring  his 
own  curiosity  with  a  strict  silence,  it  was  not  long 
ere  they  perceived  the  air  breaking  about  them,  like 
the  noise  of  distant  thunder,  or  of  swallows  in  a  chim- 
ney,— those  little  undulations  ofsound,  though  almost 
vanishing  before  they  reached  them,  yet  still  seeming 
to  retain  somewhat  of  their  first  horror,  which  they 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.     .  49 

had  between  tlie  fleets.  After  they  had  listened  till 
^achtime  as  the  sound,  by  little  and  little,  went  from 
them,  Eugenius,  liftinir  up  his  head  and  taking  notice 
of  it,  was  the  first  who  congratulated  to  the  rest  that 
happy  omen  of  our  nation's  victory  ;  adding,  we  had 
but  this  to  desire  in  confirmation  of  it,  that  we  might 
hear  no  more  of  that  noise  which  was  now  leaving 
the  English  coast." 

The  power  of  painting  here  displayed  has  aln  ist 
made  sound  itself  picturesque  ;  and  in  poetical  pamt- 
ing  it  may  be  so  ;  it  is  so  in  those  phrases, — "  they 
left  behind  them  that  great  fall  of  v/aters"  (under  the 
old  London  Bridge)  "  which  hindered  them  from 
hearing  what  they  desired ;"  "  they  perceived  the 
air  brealdng  around  them"  in  "  little  undulations  of 
sound,  almost  vanishing  before  they  reached  them  ;" 
above  all,  that  most  magnificent  and  impressive  close, 
concerning  "  that  noise  v/hich  v/as  now  leaving  the 
English  coasi."  Who  does  not  hear  the  diminishing 
sounds?  Who  does  not  see  the  defeated  enemy 
sheering  off  with  his  ships,  and  "  the  meteor  flag  of 
England,"  which  had  "  braved  the  battle,"  now  "  fly- 
ing on  the  breeze,"  in  full  pursuit  ?  Every  word  in 
the  paragraph,  like  a  gun-fire,  tells ;  every  touch  of 
the  pencil  adds  to  the  graphic  representation  of  the 
scene,  both  in  and  out  of  sight ;  or  rather,  every  new 
ideii  heightens  the  reality  of  it :  the  mysterious  mur- 
murs, their  gradual  subsidence,  and  the  happy  omen, 
with  true  British  spirit  inferred  by  Eugenius,  that 
the  victory  7nust  have  fallen  to  his  countrymen, 
are  all  in  the  noblest  style  and  the  purest  taste,— 
are  all  poetry  in  substance, — maiden  poetry, — and 
only  not 

*'  Married  to  immortal  verse. 
E 


50  •      WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 


The  Poetical  of  Place  and  Circumstance. 

But  we  must  descend  from  this  elevation.  Ima- 
gine a  small  seaport  town,  rank  with  all  the  ordi- 
nary nuisances  of  such  localities, — sights,  smells, 
sounds  ;  mean  buildings,  narrow  streets  ;  the  uncouth 
dress,  coarse  manners,  and  squalid  appearance  of  a 
poor,  ill-favoured,  hard-faring  population,  likely  to 
be  doubled  in  no  long  time  by  the  mob  of  dirty,  mis- 
chievous children,  swarming  from  every  corner,  and 
frolicking  in  every  kennel,  when  the  dame's  school 
breaks  up  at  noon.  The  hills  behind  are  low,  unva- 
rying, and  barren  ;  the  few  trees  upon  them  stunted 
and  straggling, — you  may  covmt  them  three  miles 
off,  so  lonely  do  they  look  ;  the  harbour  occupied  by 
half  a  score  brigs  and  sloops,  one  or  two-masted ;  on 
the  dreary  beach  (a  mile  broad  at  low  water)  you 
may  here  and  there  descry  a  fishing-boat  waiting 
for  the  tide,  with  weather-beaten,  worn-0\it  mariners, 
in  tarry  jackets,  leaning  on  its  flanks,  or  walking, 
singly  or  in  pairs,  along  the  edge  of  the  spent  waves, 
that  seem  scarcely  to  have  strength  to  return  to  their 
flood-mark,  or  even  to  v/asli  back  into  the  deep  the 
relics  of  putrid  fish  that  are  strown  in  their  way,  or 
the  wreaths  of  dark  sea-weed  which  they  left  behind 
when  they  last  retired. 

But  a  ship  appears,  emerging  from  the  ring  of  the 
utmost  horizon.  We  must  hasten  to  it  and  step  on 
board.  On  its  deck  stand  the  collected  crew,  eagerly, 
anxiously  looking  out  for  land  ;  for  he  at  the  mast- 
head has  already  hailed  it, — that  very  line  of  sand 
and  rock,  so  little  esteemed  by  us,  but  the  first  faint 
streak  of  which  distinguishable  from  sky  and  water 
makes  their  eyes  twinkle,  a-nd  their  bosoms  beat 
strongly,  while  for  a  moment  they  hold  their  breath; 
but  then,  then  the  most  joyous  cry  which  has 
been  uttered  since  that  vessel  left  that  port  bursts 
spontaneously  from  every  voice,  and  expresses  the 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  51 

most  cordial  emotion  that  has  been  experienced 
on  board  during  the  long^  interval.  "  This  is  my 
dear,  my  native  land  !" — '*  Yonder's  my  home,  my 
own  sweet  home  !"  Meanwhile,  as  the  vessel  nears 
the  harbour,  the  coast  itself  almost  seems  to  ad- 
vance upon  the  waves  to  receive  it — enlarging,  bright- 
ening, swelling  into  loveliness  and  grandeur,  while 
still  in  aerial  perspective,  with  the  hues  of  heaven 
and  the  sea  upon  it,  and  hardly  appearing  of  the 
earth  earthy. 

Now,  in  the  middle  distance  between  the  first 
glimpse  and  the  landing-place,  that  self-same  scene, 
which  we  have  shown  to  be  so  humble  and  unpre- 
tending in  detail,  shines  out  in  fair  proportions,  without 
one  flaw  in  colour,  form,  or  grouping  that  could  dis- 
please the  most  fastidious  painter:  without  one  mean, 
revolting,  or  even  ordinary  object  to  break  the  spell 
whichholdsthe  eye  of  the  indifferent  beholder  himself 
in  charmed  gaze.  "What  seems  it,  then,  to  the  home- 
returning  mariner  1  His  mind  dwells  solely  on  what 
is  most  dear  and  precious  to  his  sweetest  affections. 
And  these  are  awakened  by  every  symbol  that  meets 
his  view;  every  slight  undulation  of  the  outline  on 
shore  ;  every  scattered  tree,  familiar  and  endeared 
by  old  recollections, — the  ruined  castle  on  the  low 
hill,  the  church-tower  at  its  foot,  the  small  light- 
house on  the  jutting  pier ;  while  among  the  red-tiled 
roofs  and  black  chimneys,  jammed  into  mass,  each 
one  on  board  strains  to  single  out  that  for  which  all 
the  rest  are  beloved — that  which  enshrines  his  soul's 
treasure,  which  holds  his  partner  who  is  his  crown, 
and  the  children  who  are  their  jewels.  At  this  point, 
this  middle  distance,  the  poetry  of  the  scene,  both  to 
the  eye,  the  imagination,  and  the  heart,  is  complete  ; 
for  but  a  little  beyond  it,  a  furlong  or  two  nearer  the 
spot,  reality  becomes  too  potent ;  the  unconcerned 
spectator  finds  himself  there  in  the  vicinity,  here  in 
the  midst,  of  a  miserable  every-day  town  ;  while  the 
transported  seaman,  first  on  the  shore,  the  moment 


52  WHAT  IS  Poetical. 

he  laaps  from  the  boat,  and  afterward  at  his  own 
fireside,  in  the  embraces  of  his  wife,  and  the  caresses 
of  his  offspring — the  tears  of  the  one,  and  the  shouts 
of  the  other — forgets  every  thing  but  present,  posi- 
tive, overwhelming  bhss. 

In  the  foregoing  sketch,  the  poetry  of  real  life  has 
been  exemplified  ;  for,  with  all  its  sorrows,  and  pains, 
and  sordid  anxieties,  there  is  much  poetry  in  real 
life.  All  is  not  "  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  under 
the  sun"  to  him  who  can  honestly  and  innocently 
enjoy  the  commonest  blessings  of  Providence.  Who 
can  behold  this  beautiful  world,  and  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  it  was  designed  to  be  the  abode  of  mis- 
erable beings'?  The  earth,  arrayed  in  verdure, 
adorned  with  flowers,  diversified  with  hill  and  dale., 
forest  and  glade,  fountains  and  running  streams, 
engirdled  with  the  ocean,  over-canopied  with  heaven ; 
this  earth,  so  smiling  and  fruitful,  so  commodious 
and  magnificent,  is  altogether  worthy  of  its  Maker  ; 
and  not  only  a  fit  habitation  for  man,  created  in  the 
image  of  God,  but  a  place  which  angels  might  de- 
light to  visit  on  embassies  of  love.  All  nature, 
through  all  her  forms  of  existence,  calls  on  man  to 
rejoice  with  her  in  the  goodness  of  the  universal 
Parent.  The  stars  in  their  courses,  the  sun  in  his 
circuit,  and  the  moon  through  her  changes,  by  day 
and  by  night  display  his  glory ;  the  seasons  in  suc- 
cession, the  land  and  the  waters,  reciprocally  distrib- 
ute his  bounty.  Every  plant  in  its  growth  is  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye,  or  wholesome  for  food  ;  every  animal 
in  health  is  happy  in  the  exercise  of  its  ordinary 
functions:  life  itself  is  enjoyment. 

Yet  in  the  heart  of  man  there  is  something  which 
disqualifies  him  from  the  full  fruition  of  the  blessings 
thus  abundantly  dealt  around  him  ;  something  which 
has  introduced  disorder  into  his  mind,  and  disease 
into  his  frame;  darkening  and  bewildering  his  intel- 
lect ;  corrupting  and  inflaming  his  passions ;  and 
hurrying  him,  by  a  fatality  of  impulse,  to  that  excess 


WHAT    .S    POETICAL.  68 

in  every  indulgence  which  turns  aliment  into  poison; 
and  from  the  perversion  of  the  social  feelino^s  pro- 
duces strife,  misery,  and  confusion  to  families,  to 
nauans,  to  the  world.  That  enemy,  that  destroyer, 
what  is  it] — Sin!  Yet  so  m)^steriously  and  merci- 
fully does  God,  in  his  providence,  oul  of  evil  educe 
good,  that  much  of  the  felicity  of  life,  as  it  is,  arises 
out  of  the  misery  with  which  it  is  beset  on  every 
hand.  This  I  may  have  a  future  opportunity  of 
showing  ;  but,  to  return  to  our  imm.ediate  subject,  it 
is  sufficient  to  state  the  fact  that  poetry  finds  inex- 
haustible materials  for  its  most  gorgeous  and  beau- 
ful  compositions  in  "  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to." 

The  Poetical  Aspect  of  VisiUe  Nature. 

"  Ye  stars,  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  !" 

This  is  one  of  those  rapturous  apostrophes  of  the 
author  of  Childe  Harold  which  occasionally  hurst,  ia 
fine  phrensy,  from  the  impassioned  poet,  like  oracles 
from  the  lips  of  the  Pythoness ;  unconsciously  ut- 
tered, and  seeming,  from  their  very  boldness  and 
obscurity,  to  convey  more  meaning  than  intelligible 
words  could  express.  Had  the  noble  bard  been 
asked  what  he  himself  intended  by  this  extraordinary 
phrase, — to  make  it  clear  might  have  cost  him  more 
labour  in  vain  than  he  was  wont  to  expend,  who  sel- 
dom did  labour  in  vain  (though  he  often  did  worse), 
for  he  generally  achieved  what  he  attempted,  whether 
it  were  good  or  evil.  Without  inquiring  what 
prompted  the  idea  to  that  wayward  mind,  which,  in 
the  context,  is  about  consulting  them  as  the  rulers 
of  hum.an  destinies, — there  is  a  sense  in  which,  ] 
think,  "the  stars"  may  truly  and  intelligibly  be 
styled  "  the  poetry  cf  heaven."  How  1 — Not,  cer- 
tainly, on  account  of  their  visible  splendour  :  for  the 
gas-lamps  of  a  single  street  of  this  metropolis  out- 
shine the  whole  hemisphr^re  on  the  clearest  winter. 


54  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

evening :  nor  on  account  of  their  beautiful  config 
urations ;  for  the  devices  chalked  on  the  floor  of  a 
fashionable  ball-room,  to  the  mere  animal  eye,  would 
be  more  captivating-.  It  is  from  causes  having  affin- 
ity to  mind,  not  matter, — to  truth,  not  semblance, — 
that  the  stars  may  indeed  be  called  the  poetry  of 
heaven.  Among  these  may  be  mentioned  the  time 
of  their  appearance,  in  the  solitude,  silence,  and 
darkness  of  night ;  their  motion,  v/ith  one  consent, 
from  east  to  west,  each  kept  in  its  place  ;  so  slow  as 
not  to  be  perceptible,  except  by  comparison,  at  inter- 
vals, yet  accomplishing  an  annual  revolution  of  the 
heavens,  by  points  actually  gained  on  their  apparent 
nocturnal  journeys :  again,  by  our  knowledge  that 
they  have  had  existence  from  the  foundation  of  the 
world,  when  "the  morning  stars  sang  together,  and 
all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy  ;"  by  their  use 
in  the  firmament, — being  placed  there  "  for  signs,  and 
•for  seasons,  and  for  days,  and  for  years"  to  man. 
"  Knowest  thou  the  ordinances  of  Heaven  T"  said  the 
Lord,  speaking  out  of  the  whirlwind  to  Job  :  "  Canst 
thou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades,  or  loose 
the  bands  of  Orion  1  Canst  thou  bring  forth  Maz- 
zaroth  in  his  season  ]  Or  canst  thou  guide  Arcturus 
with  his  sons  V' — Here  shines  out,  indeed,  "  the  po- 
etry of  heaven ;"  and  here  we  may  hearken  to  the 
true  "  music  of  the  spheres  :" 

"  For  though  no  real  voicenor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found, 
In  reason's  "ear  ihej  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  ; 
For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
*  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.' " 

But  in  a  peculiar  and,  to  myself  at  least,  an  in- 
tensely interesting  view,  the  stars  are  "the  poetry 
of  heaven."  Iij  common  with  the  sun  and  moon, 
they  are  the  onbj  unchanging  and  actual  objects 
which  all  eyes  that  were  ever  opened  to  the  light, 


WHAT    IS    I'OKTICAL.  55 

and  lifted  to  tlie  sky,  have  seei/  precisely  as  we  see 
them,  and  precisely  as  they  shall  he  seen  by  pos 
terity  to  the  end  of  time.  Rivers  stray  from  their 
channels  ;  mountains  are  shattered  by  earthquakes  ; 
undermined  by  waters,  or  worn  by  the  stress  of  ele 
ments ;  forests  disappear,  and  cities  rise  upon  their 
place ;  cities,  again,  are  tumbled  into  ruins ;  all  the 
works  of  man  perish  like  their  framer ;  and  on  those 
of  nature  herself,  throughout  the  habitable  globe,  is 
written  Mutahility.  The  entire  aspect  of  the  earth, 
whether  waste  or  cultivated,  peopled  or  solitary,  is 
perpetually  undergoing  transformation.  Shakspeare 
says,  "  No  man  ever  bathed  twice  in  the  same  river." 
It  may  as  truly  be  said,  though  the  process  is 
slower,  that  no  two  generations  dwelling  success- 
ively on  one  spot,  however  marked  its  general  fea- 
tures might  be,  ever  beheld  the  same  local  objects, 
in  the  same  colour,  shape,  and  character.  The 
heavenly  bodies  alone  appear  to  us  the  identical  lu- 
minaries, in  size,  lustre,  movement,  and  relative  posi- 
tion which  they  appeared  to  Adam  and  Eve  in  Par- 
adise, when, 

"  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood. 
Both  tum'd,  and  under  open  sky  adored 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven. 
Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 
And  starry  pole." 

Paradise  Lost,  book  iv. 

They  appear  to  us  the  same  as  they  did  to  Noah 
and  his  family,  when  they  descended  from  the  ark 
into  the  silence  of  an  unpeopled  world ;  and  as  they 
did  to  the  builders  of  Babel,  when  the  latter  pro- 
jected a  tow'^'r  whose  top  should  reach  heaven. 
They  appear  to  us  in  the  same  battle-array  as  they 
were  seen  by  Deborah  and  Barak,  when  "  the  stars 
in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera ;"  in  the  same 
sparkhng  constellations  as  they  were  seen  by  the 
Pbalmist,   corapelling  him    to   exclaim,    "  When  I 


56  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers,  the 
moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  hast  ordained,  Lord  ! 
what  is  man  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him,  or  the 
son  of  man  that  Thou  visitest  him  V  Once  more, 
— and.  Oh !  how  touching  is  the  thought ! — the  stars^ 
the  unchanging  stars,  appear  to  us  with  the  same 
placid  magnificence  as  they  v/ere  seen  by  the  Re- 
deemer of  the  world,  when,  "'  having  sent  the  mul- 
titude away,  he  went  up  into  a  mountain  apart  to 
pray ;  and  when  evening  was  come  he  v/as  there 
alone,"  and  "  continued  all  night  in  prayer  to  God."^ 
-Matt.  xiv.  23.  Luke  vi.  12. 

"  Cold  mountains  and  the  midnight  air 
"Witness'd  the  fervour  of  his  prayer; 
The  desert  liis  temptations  knew, 
His  conflict  and  his  victory  too." 

Watts. 

The  stars,  then,  have  been  the  points  where  all 
that  ever  lived  have  met ;  the  great,  the  small,  the 
evil,  and  th-e  good ;  the  prince,  the  warrior,  states- 
man, sage ;  the  high,  the  low,  the  rich,  the  poor ; 
the  bond  and  the  free ;  Jew,  Greek,  Scythian,  and 
Barbarian:  every  man  that  has  looked  up  from 
the  earth  to  the  firmament  has  met  every  other  man 
among  the  stars,  for  all  have  seen  them  alike,  which 
can  be  said  of  no  other  images  in  the  visible  uni- 
verse !  Hence,  by  a  sympathy  neither  afi'ected  nor 
overstrained,  we  can  at  pleasure  bring  our  spirits 
inio  nearer  contact  with  any  being  that  has  existed, 
illustrious  or  obscure,  in  any  age  or  country,  by 
fixing  our  eyes — to  name  no  other — on  the  evening 
or  the  morning  star,  which  that  individual  must  have 
beheld  a  hundred  and  a  hundred  times, 

"  In  that,  samo  place  of  heaven  where  now  it  shines," 

and  with  the  very  aspect  which  the  beautiful  planet 
wears  to  us,  r.nd  with  which  it  will  continue  to  smile 
over  the  couch  of  dying  or  the  cradle  of  reviving  day. 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  57 

Dr.  Johnson  most  eloquently  and  pathetically 
touches  upon  those  feelings,  which  local  associa- 
tions are  calculated  to  awaken,  in  that  well  knov/n 
passage  from  his  "  Tour  to  the  Western  Islands," 
on  occasion  of  his  arrival  at  Icolmkill,  the  ancient 
lona : — "  We  are  now  treading  that  illustrious  island, 
which  was  once  the  luminary  of  the  Caledonian 
regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians 
derived  the  benefits  of  knowledge,  and  the  blessings 
of  religion.  To  abstract  the  mind  from  all  local 
emotion  would  be  impossible,  if  it  were  endeavoured ; 
and  would  be  foolish,  if  it  were  possible.  What- 
ever withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses, — 
whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future 
predominate  over  the  present, — advances  us  in  the 
dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me,  and  from 
my  friends,  be  such  frigid  philosophy,  as  may  con- 
duct us,  indifferent  and  unmoved,  over  any  ground 
which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery,  or 
virtue !  That  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose  pa- 
triotism would  not  gain  force  on  the  plain  of  Mara- 
thon, or  whose  piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among 
the  ruins  of  lona." 

True  and  beautiful,  not  less  than  sublime  and  ten- 
der, as  these  sentiments  will  be  acknowledged  by 
every  one  who  has  experienced  the  delight  to  which 
they  refer, — yet  such  are  the  devastations  of  time, 
war,  and  civil  changes,  that  the  saints  of  lona,  were 
they  to  rise  from  their  graves,  would  have  to  search 
for  their  churches  and  colleges  among  those  ruins, 
in  which  to  us,  by  the  force  of  imagination,  they 
still  exist  in  their  glory;  and  the  shade  of  Miltiades 
on  the  plain  of  Marathon  would  hardly  recognise  the 
battle-field,  where  he  overthrew  Persia,  and  de- 
livered Greece.  But  the  stars,  by  which  the  fisher- 
men of  the  Hebrides, 

"  Placed  far  upon  the  melancholy  main," 
were  wont  to  steer  their  little  barks  in  the  days  of 


^■■'^  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

"ona's  prosperity, — those  stars  have  never  missed, 
' i\  their  appointed  rounds,  to  rise  and  set  with  un- 
diminished splendour  upon  her  desolations.  And 
the  very  horoscope  to  which  the  sentinels  of  both 
armies  looked  up,  in  the  night-watch,  v/hile  they 
longed  for  the  morning, — that  same  horoscope,  on 
the  anniversary-eve  of  the  conflict,  never  fails  to  be 
figured  in  the  firmament  over  "  the  plain  of  Ma- 
rathon." The  traveller  who  then  is  belated  there 
may  well  feel  "  his  patriotism  gain  force,"  not  more 
from  the  influence  of  "  local  emotion"  beneath,  than 
from  celestial  inspiration  above.  The  ever-altering 
earth  is  the  abode  of  generation  after  generation, 
each  leaving  it  difl'erent  from  what  they  found  it. 
In  the  perpetuity  of  heaven,  successive  generations 
are  contemporary.  The  only  objects  which  all  ages 
have  seen  must  bring  together  all  ages  and  kindreds, 
in  a  manner  which  nothing  else  within  the  forms 
of  matter  or  the  range  of  mind  can  accomplish.  No 
fact  in  history,  no  collocation  of  words  in  any  lan- 
guage, no  form  of  thought  that  ever  originated  in 
the  mind  of  man,  no  single  spot  on  the  face  of  con- 
tinent or  ocean,  has  been,  is,  or  can  be,  known  to  the 
whole  progeny  of  Adam  ;  but  all,  without  exception, 
where  blindness  and  imbecility  were  not  combined 
to  cut  off  individuals  from  rational  communication 
with  their  fellow- creatures, — all  have  either  seen  or 
heard  of  the  host  of  heaven,  and,  by  one  bond  at 
least,  have  been  connected  with  progenitors,  contem- 
poraries, and  successors,  from  the  creation  to  the 
day  of  judgment. 

But  these  stirring  sympathies  are  not  all  "the 
poetry  of  heaven,"  composed 

"  In  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile." 

Barbauld. 

There  is  yet  a  higher  strain.  In  the  paragraph 
just  quoted  from  Dr.  Johnson,  we  are  tauglit,  that 
"whatever  withdraws   us  from  the   power  of  our 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  59 

senses,  and  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future 
predominate  over  the  present,  advances  us  in  the 
dignity  of  thinking  beings."  Now  this  is  the  very- 
essence,  and  to  produce  it  is  the  end  of  poetry; 
in  ilkistration  of  which  the  stars  are  pre-eminent. 
For,  by  associations  of  "  the  past,  the  distant,  and 
the  future,"  they  so  withdraw  us  from  the  contem- 
plation of  themselves  as  objects  of  sense,  that  they 
actually  compel  us,  in  the  idea  of  a  star,  to  think 
not  so  much  of  what  is  visible  and  present,  as  of 
what  is  remote  and  unapparent,  but  not  less  surely 
real  in  it. 

When,  therefore,  we  behold  the  stars,  we  regarCi 
them  nol  only  as  the  things  which  they  seem, — mere 
glittering  sparks ;  nor  as  marking  the  returns  of 
seed-time  and  harvest,  summer  and  winter ;  nor  as 
contemporaries  with  the  whole  human  race,  and 
binding  with  the  only  chain  of  visible  connexion  all 
that  have  been,  are,  or  will  be,  inhabitants  of  this 
globe  :  but  we  think  of  them,  either  as  sister-worlds 
of  our  own,  peopled,  probably  with  beings  of  like 
passions  with  ourselves,  or  as  fixed  luminaries,  equal 
or  superior  to  our  sun  in  bulk  and  splendour,  set  in 
the  midst  of  planetarj^  systems,  giving  light,  and 
life,  and  enjoyment  to  earths  and  their jnoons,  which 
eye  hath  not  seen,  and  of  which  ear  hath  not  heard. 
If  we  think  thus  of  them  individually,  what  must 
we  conceive  of  them  collectively,  but  as  the  most 
extensive  manifestation  of  the  works  of  God,  which 
nature  can  afford  to  the  unassisted  eye  ?  Nor  rest 
we  here ;  for  when  optical  science  lends  the  means 
of  drawing  out  of  invisible  depths  a  hundred,  nay 
a  thousand  times  their  number  more,  imagination 
itself  sinks  under  the  effort  to  "  find  out  the  Almighty 
to  perfection;"  and  still  the  devout  worshipper  ex- 
claims,— "  Lo  !  these  are  parts  of  his  ways,  but  how 
little  a  portion  is  heard  of  them  !  for  the  thunder  of 
his  power,  who  can  understand  V  Joh  xxvi.  14.  In 
truth,  after  turning  back,  weary,  yet  exalted,  from 


60  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

the  most  excursive  range  of  telescopic  vision,  he 
who  sees  farthest  into  the  secrets  of  the  universe 
must  confess,  "  there  was  the  hiding  of  his  power ;" 
the  \-eil  behind  which  He  retires  from  mortal  scru- 
tiny— 

"  Whose  throne  is  darkness  in  the  abyss  of  hght, 
A  flood  of  glory,  which  forbids  the  sight  ;" 

while  yet  it  shines  to  the  lowest  soundings  of  the 
sea,  throughout  the  infinite  of  space,  and  into  the 
heart  of  man.  Thus,  not  from  what  they  appear, 
but  from  what  v/e  know  that  they  are,  or  believe 
them  to  be,  we  look  upon  these  "lesser  lights," 
which  require  darkness  to  reveal  them,  and  in  return 
render  midnight  more  illustrious  than  noon-day, — 
we  look  upon  these  with  a  delight  which  purifies, 
and  almost  spiritualizes,  the  senses  themselves,  as 
the  vehicles  of  such  unearthly  revelations.  Then, 
with  a  meaning  more  emphatic  than  the  author  of 
the  apostrophe  himself  contemplated,  we  join  our 
voices  with  his,  in  crying, — 

"Ye  stars,  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  !" 

But  in  touching  "  the  lyre  of  heaven"  (to  borrow 
the  happy  figure  of  a  living  poet,  in  reference  to  the 
discovery  of  the  planet  Herschel),  there  is  yet  an- 
other note — a  key-note,  which,  with  its  chords, 
imbodies  the  harmonies  of  all  created  things,  whe- 
ther visible  or  invisible,  whether  they  belong  to  the 
material  or  the  spiritual  world. 

The  sun  shining  in  his  strength,  the  moon  walking 
in  her  brightness,  the  stars  revolving  in  their  ranks, 
may  all  be  withdrawn  from  the  scene,  and  leave 
heaven  empty, — yet  theji  will  be  presented  to  the 
eye  and  to  the  mind,  the  sublimest  spectacle  on 
which  the  one  can  look  or  the  other  can  meditate. 
There  is  a  brief  interval  between  the  first  peep  of 


WHAT    IS    POETICAL.  61 

dawn  and  the  flush  of  mornings,  when  it  is  no  longer 
night,  and  yet  not  day,  but  akin  to  both.  Who  hath 
not  seen  (in  boyhood  at  least),  when  the  moon  has 
gone  down,  the  last  star  disappeared,  and  the  sun 
is  unrisen, — the  deep  blue  firmament,  without  a  shade 
of  cloud,  or  a  luminous  speck  to  soil  its  ineffable 
purity]  Who  has  not  seen  it  swelling  from  the 
ring  of  the  horizon  into  boimdless  amplitude  above, 
— deepening  in  tone  as  it  rises  in  elevation,  till  at 
the  zenith  its  intensity  of  colour  defies  the  search 
of  human  optics  ?  The  longer  we  gaze,  the  less  we 
discern ;  space,  infinite  space,  recedes,  and  recedes, 
and  recedes,  leaving  perfect  conviction  that  we  might 
follow  it  for  ever,  yet  never  reach  the  roof  of  that 
vault,  which,  to  a  superficial  glance,  appears  as  solid 
as  adamant,  and  as  palpable  as  the  surface  of  a  molten 
mirror.  Then,  though  no  spectacle  can  be  more 
august  and  magnificent,  none  can  be  more  simple 
and  unique.  Form,  colour,  magnitude,  all  meet  in 
the  eye  at  once  ;  and  the  image  is  so  entire  that 
nothing  could  be  added  or  subtracted  without  dis- 
solving the  whole. 

Yet,  all  this  while,  we  know  that  it  is  not  what  it 
first  appears, — an  arch  of  sapphire ;  nor  what  it 
afterward  might  seem, — unoccupied,  unpeopled  non- 
entity. The  mind  goes  to  v/ork,  and,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  every  phenomenon  that  could  aid  imagi- 
nation— from  memory  alone — it  arrays  that  hyaline 
above  in  the  beauty  of  morn,  the  glory  of  noon,  the 
pomp  of  evening,  and  the  diversified  phases  of  night ; 
it  darkens  the  vault  with  clouds,  rends  it  with  light- 
ning, shakes  it  with  thunder,  deforms  it  with  tem- 
pests ;  or  brings  forth,  in  season,  rain,  hail,  and  snow, 
vapour,  and  mist.  But  recoUective  imagination  rests 
not  here,  in  realizing  things  unseen.  All  "  the  poetry 
of  heaven,"  of  which  ihe  ^iqrs  are  the  symbols,  is 
perused  and  enjoyed  even  to  transport,  in  contem- 
plating the  clear,  blank,  beautiful  expanse, — worlds, 
suns,  and  systems,  numbers  without  number,  pour 


62  WHAT    IS    POKTiOAL. 

into  being-,  as  they  came  into  it,  at  the  word,  "  Let 
there  be  li^ht."  We  know  that  the  whole  material 
universe  does  verily  exist  within  that  seeming  void, 
which  we  are  exploring-,  at  the  same  instant,  with 
the  eye  of  the  body  and  the  eye  of  thought. 

Yet  more,  much  more  than  this  is  included  (in- 
evitably included)  in  the  association  of  ideas  awa 
kened  by  the  silent,  solitary  firmament.  We  feel 
that  all  the  invisible  world  of  spirits,  disembodied  or 
pure, — I  say  feel,  becguse,  abstract  them  as  we  may, 
every  idea  we  can  frame  of  spiritual  essences  will 
be  crudely  material, — we  feel  that  all  these  must  be 
somewhere  within  that  impenetrable  veil,  which  is 
itself  the  only  perfect  emblem  of  eternity,  and  is 
eternity  made  visible.  But  I  dare  not  pursue  the 
flight  further !  I  must  not  presume  to  spy  out  "  the 
secrets  of  the  desolate  abyss,"  or, 

"  with  the  deep-transported  mind,  to  soar 
Above  the  wheeling  poles,  and  at  heaven's  door 
Look  in." 

It  is  enough  to  have  pointed  out  the  way,  which  those 
of  my  auditory  who  have  nerve  and  power  enough 
may  trace  to  infinity.  Such,  I  am  persuaded,  will  be 
more  and  more  satisfied  with  this  conclusion,  which 
I  would  draw  from  the  whole  of  the  antecedent  ex- 
amples : — It  is  the  natui^e  of  'poetry,  and  the  office  of 
the  poet,  from  things  that  are  seen  to  disclose  tilings 
that  are  not  seen.  And  hence,  to  every  subject  tliat 
can  be  the  theme  of  true  poetry,  the  language  of 
Scripture  (neither  irreverently  nor  inappropriately) 
may  be  extended ;  "  the  things  which  are  seen  are 
temporal,  but  the  things  which  are  not  seen  are 
eternal."  For  those  objects  which,  by  near  contact, 
strongly  affect  the  senses,  are  the  realities  of  mortal 
life  ;  which  either  perish  in  the  using-,  or  from  which 
we  ourselves  must  perish,  and  see,  know,  suflTer,  or 
enjoy  them  no  more  for  ever.  Yet  the  same  objects, 
when  removed  to  that  due  distance  which  clothes 


WHAT    IS    POKTICAL.  63 

them  with  picturesque  or  poetical  beauty,  by  being 
thus  m.ide  ideal,  are  made  immortal,  and  of  the 
nature  of  the  thinking  principle  itself,  which 

"  secured  of  its  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point : 
■     The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years  , 
But  this  shall  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds." 

Addison's  Cato. 

The  Poetical  in  Childhood  and  Old  Age. 

To  come  home  to  our  own  bosoms  and  personal 
experience.  I  have  said,  that  there  is  much,  very 
much  of  what  is  poetical  even  in  ordinary  life.  Of 
this,  Hope  and  Memory  constitute  the  principal  ele- 
ments ;  and  these,  for  the  most  part,  are  exercised 
in  reference  to  age  before  it  arrives,  and  childhood 
when  it  is  past, — 

"Till youth's  dehrious  dream  is  o'er, 
Sanguine  with  hope,  we  look  before, 
The  future  good  to  find  ; 
In  age,  when  error  charms  no  more, 
For  bliss  we  look  behind." 

There  is  this  difference  between  rational  and  brute 
beings. — that  the  latter  live  wholly  to  the  present 
time  and  the  present  scene  ;  and  it  is  only  under 
peculiar  excitement,  wdien  separated  from  their 
young,  hurried  on  by  the  impulse  of  appetite,  or  sud- 
denly removed  to  a  strange  place,  that  they  seem 
conscious  of  any  objects  but  those  around  them,  and 
which  press  immediately  upon  their  senses.  They 
do  not  spontaneously  call  up  recollections  ;  the  past, 
the  absent,  and  the  future  are  alike  forgotten,  un 
regarded,  or  unknown.  But  man,  endowed  with 
intelligence,  lives  in  the  present  time,  chiefly  as  a 


64  WHAT    IS    POKTICAL. 

point  between  that  which  is  gone  by  and  that  which 
is  to  come,  and  m  the  present  scene,  chiefly  as  the 
centre  of  what  is  around  him.  He  looks  behind  and 
before,  above  and  beneath,  and  on  either  hand :  but 
at  different  stages  of  the  journey  of  life,  his  attention 
!s  more  especially  attracted  in  contrary  directions. 

The  infant,  so  soon  as  it  begins  to  think  and  reason, 
looks  wholly  before  it,  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
and  power,  while  desire  increases  with  what  it  feeds 
upon,  and  hope  grows  out  of  every  indulgence.  Im- 
patient of  control,  and  eager  to  exercise  over  others 
that  authority  v/hich  it  resents  when  exercised 
towards  itself,  though  only  for  its  protection, — it 
longs  for  the  time  when  it  shall  be  as  old  and  as 
strong  as  its  brothers,  and  sisters,  and  companions, 
that  it  may  enjoy  the  same  liberties,  and  assume  the 
same  airs  and  rights  which  they  do. 

When  a  little  further  grown,  the  boy, — ^looking  up 
and  pressing  onward,  as  he  rises  in  stature,  and  feels 
new  capacities  expanding  within  him, — rebels  in 
secret  against  the  j^oke,  the  reins,  and  the  scourge 
with  which  he  finds  himself  ruled,  however  his  ser- 
vitude may  be  disguised  ;  and  he  sighs  for  maturity, 
that  he  may  go  where  he  pleases,  and  do  what  he 
likes. 

It  is  not,  then,  the  toys,  the  sweetmeats,  the  holy- 
days,  the  finery,  and  the  caresses  that  are  lavished 
upon  him, — these  are  mere  every-day  matters  of 
course, — it  is  something  far  more  intellectual  than 
any  childish  thing,  that  constitutes  the  charm  of 
childish  existence.  "  When  I  am  a  man !"  is  the 
poetry  of  childhood  ;  and,  Oh!  how  much  is  compre- 
hended in  that  puerile  phrase,  so  often  employed  by 
little  lips,  unconscious  of  its  bitter  meaning ;  and  so 
unheeded  by  those  who  are  men  already,  and  have 
forgotten  that  they  ever  had  a  golden  dream  of  that 
iron  age, — a  dream  to  which  all  the  fictions  of  ro 
mance  are  cold  and  unnatural !  "  When  I  am  a  man !' 
means,  in  the  mind  of  a  child,  when  he  shall  be  no 


WHAT    IS    PDKTICAL.  65 

more  that  which  he  e.?,-  when  (as  he  is  ah-eady  by 
anticipation)  he  shall  be  that  which  he  is  noi, — that 
which,  Hlas!  he  never  will  be, — lord  of  himself.  If 
we  would  really  know,  by  a  test  which  will  hardlj 
deceive  us,  the  highest  happiness  of  what  is  (mis 
takenly  I  am  sure)  deemed  the  happiest  period  of 
human  life, — let  us  recollect  what  were  our  owb 
emotions  when  we  were  cherishing  ideas  of  man 
hood  to  come, — but  which  never  did  come  to  the 
heart  as  it  had  been  promised  to  the  hope. 

*'  When  I  was  a  child  !"  is  the  poetry  of  age.  Man 
advancing  in  years,  enriched  with  the  treasure  ot 
disappointed  hopes,  looks  less  eagerly  before  him 
because  he  expects  less  good,  and  fears  more  evil 
in  this  world,  in  proportion  as  he  proves  for  himselt 
what  are  the  sad  and  sober  realities  of  life.  Eternity 
invites  him  to  explore  its  mysteries,  in  anticipation 
of  his  approaching  end ;  when  all  his  love,  and  all 
his  hatred,  aiid  all  his  envy  shall  cease,  and  there 
remain  no  longer  a  portion  to  him  in  all  that  is  done 
under  the  sun.     [Ecclesiastes  ix.  6.] 

Yet,  while  caution  and  prudence,  the  fruits  of  many 
a  failure  and  much  suffering,  make  him  peep  warily 
forward  into  his  future  trials  in  the  present  state, — 
the  circumstances  of  spiritual  existence  are  so  utterly 
unseen  and  inconceivable  by  mortal  faculties,  that, 
when  his  mind  puts  forth  its  feelers  beyond  the  grave, 
imperfectly  to  apprehend  a  little  of  the  terrors  or  the 
glories  of  an  hereafter, — soon  coming  in  contact  with 
things  with  which  flesh  and  blood  can  hold  no  com- 
munion, it  draws  them  back  with  a  sensitive  collapse, 
like  that  which  shrinks  up  a  snail  when  its  telescopic 
eyes  suddenly  touch  a  palpable  substance. 

Yet  not  into  itself  alone,  or  even  within  the  cir- 
cumscribed horizon  of  the  present,  does  the  mind 
retire  from  eternity ;  it  takes  refuge  in  past  time,  and 
recalls,  with  fondness  and  entrancement  (unknown 
while  they  were  in  his  power),  the  sports  of  infancy, 
the  raptures  of  bovhood,  and  the  passionate  pursuits 
F 


60  WHAT    IS    POETICAL. 

of  youth.  But,  in  the  dream  of  memory,  he  forgets 
that  while  he  was  passing  successively  through 
these,  the  poetry  of  Hope  was,  in  each,  alluring  him 
forward  to  the  stage  beyond ;  and  even  through  the 
matter-of-fact  period  of  maturity  continued  to  decoy 
him  from  the  every-day  business  of  life,  till  he  ar- 
rived at  that  barrier  where  "  desire  faileth,  because 
man  goeth  to  his  long  home."  It  is  from  that  bar- 
rier that  he  daily  looks  less  and  less  onward,  and 
more  and  more  behind  him,  at  the  scenes  which  he 
is  leaving  for  ever,  and  especially  at  the  earliest,  the 
most  endeared,  though  the  most  familiar,  of  the 
whole  series. 

Ah!  then,  how  naturally  will  some  bright  day, 
among  the  many  clouded  ones,  recur  to  him  in  all  its 
splendour,  and  be  spent,  like  youth  renewed, — spent 
over  again  in  imagination,  through  all  its  hours,  with 
an  intensity  of  enjoyment  which  the  reality  never 
gave — never  could  give,  subject,  as  all  present  felici- 
ties must  be,  to  inconveniences  and  annoyances,  for- 
gotten as  soon  as  they  are  over ;  while  the  ethereal, 
or  rather  the  ideal,  of  the  scenes  and  the  circum- 
stances alone  survives  in  remembrance. 

"  This  lives  within  him  ;  this  shall  be 
A  part  ot  his  eternitj-. 
Amid  the  cares,  the  toils,  the  strife, 
The  weariness  and  waste  of  hfe, 
That  day  shall  memory  oft  restore, 
And,  in  a  moment,  live  it  o'er, 
When,  with  a  lightning-flash  of  thought. 
Morn,  noon,  and  eve  at  once  are  brought 
(As  through  the  vision  of  a  trance) 
All  in  the  compass  of  a  glance  !" 

It  IS  then,  in  the  recollection  of  such  a  day,  inno- 
cently spent  with  friends,  of  whom  some  have  been 
long  dead,  others  are  far  separated,  and  a  few  have 
grown  old  with  himself, — it  is  then  that  he  can 
say, — 


WHAT    15    POETICAL.  67 

"The  harmonies  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Through  eye,  ear,  intellect,  gayje  birth 
To  joys  too  exquisite  to  last. 
And  yet  more  exquisite  when  past ! 
When  the  soul  summons,  by  a  spell, 
The  ghosts  of  pleasure  round  her  cell, 
In  samtlier  forms  than  once  they  wore, 
And  smiles  benigner  than  before  ; 
Each  loved,  lamented  scene  renews 
With  warmer  touches,  tenderer  hues  ; 
Recalls  kind  words  for  ever  fiown, 
But  echoing  in  a  softened  tone ; 
Wakes,  with  new  pulses,  in  the  breast, 
Feelings  forgotten,  or  repress'd  : 
—The  thojight  how  fugitive  and  fair, 
How  dear  and  precious  such  things  were , 
That  thought,  with  gladness  more  refined, 
Deep  and  transporting;,  fills  the  mind. 
Than  all  the  follies  of  an  hour. 
When  ny  St  the  soul  confess'd  their  power 

Bliss  n  possession  will  not  last, 
Remeraber'd  joys  are  never  past ; 
At  once  the  fountain,  stream,  and  sea, 
They  were,  they  are,  and  yet  shall  be." 

Now,  all  these  are  of  the  nature  of  poetry — poetry 
in  its  highest,  purest,  most  intellectual,  imaginative, 
and  passionate  for«i-  And  that  verse  is  not  poetry 
which  does  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  and  in  no  in-^ 
considerate  degree,  excite  sentiments,  images,  and 
associations  kindred  to  those  which  would  be  awa- 
kened in  the  mind,  presented  to  the  eye,  or  inspired 
into  the  soul, — by  the  well-proportioned  statue  of 
Minerva  on  her  temple  at  Athens, — by  the  low  sounds 
of  battle,  booming  from  the  seacoast,  along  the  banks 
of  the  Thames,  when  the  British  and  Dutch  fleets 
were  engaged  within  hearing,  but  out  of  sight,  of  the 
metropolis, — by  the  first  view  of  his  native  land,  and 
its  nearer  approach,  till  he  beheld  the  smoke  from 
his  own  chimney,  to  the  mariner  returning  from  a 
lons"  voyage, — by  the  contemplation  of  the  stars  and 
the  heavens,  under  all  the  aspects  in  which  we  have 
considered  them, — by  the  ineffable  forecastings  of 


68  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

Hope  in  the  bosom  of  the  lad,  who  thinks  to  himself, 
much  oftener  than  he  says  it,  "  When  I  am  a  man !" 
— and  by  the  tender  but  sublime  emotions  of  the 
man,  looking  back  through  the  vista  of  years,  and 
exclaiming,  "  When  I  was  a  child  !"  remembering 
only  the  delights  of  nutting,  bird-nesting,  fishing  for 
minnows  with  a  crooked  pin,  and  going  home  at  the 
holvdays — but  forgetting  the  tasks,  the  control,  the 
self-denial,  and  the  hard^fare  to  which  the  schoolboy 
was  subjected. 

May  I  add,  that  "  the  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  and 
"  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  have  had  poets  in  our  own 
language,  whose  strains,  worthy  of  their  themes, 
will  not  soon  cease  to  animate  the  aspirations  of 
youth,  and  hallow  the  recollection  of  age. 


LECTURE  HI. 

THE    FORM    OF   POETRY. 

I  HAVE  not  pretended  to  definr^  poetry ;  but  if  I 
have,  in  any  moderate  degree,  succeeded  in  showing 
what  is  poetical  in  the  various  instances  ada\]iced,  I 
cannot  entirely  have  failed  in  what  I  designed, — 
naniely,  to  furnish  a  test  whereby  poetry  itself  may 
be  detected  wherever  it  exists  in  any  species  of 
literary  composition.  For  it  follows,  thai  every  sub- 
ject which  is  not  purely  didactic  or  scientific, — the 
mathematics,  for  example,  and  these  only  in  their 
principles  and  processes, — is  capable  of  being  treated 
poetically;  or  placed  in  such  a  light,  and  witli  such 
associations,  natural  or  adventitious,  as  shall  divest 
it  of  wliatever  is  ordiuary,  gross,  or  mere  detail,  and 
clothe  it  with  that  ideal  beauty  which  is  not  the  less 
real  because  it  is  only  discernible  at  the  nice  dis- 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  69 

tance,  and  in  the  peculiar  point  of  view,  which,  by 
brino:ing  out  some  latent  excellence,  or  some  happy 
incidence,  gives  it  a  new  and  unexpected  character. 
Hence,  in  conversation,  in  eloquence,  in  iiistory, — 
indeed,  in  every  kind  of  discourse,  whether  oral  or 
written  (at  proper  seasons), — the  themes  in  hand 
may  be  poetically  treated  ;  that  is,  they  may  be  ex- 
hibited in  all  their  poetical  relationships,  and  under 
those  aspects  may  excite  the  corresponding  emo- 
tions. But  it  is  manifest,  that  such  license,  in  the 
several  species  of  composition  alluded  to,  and  in  fact 
in  all  prose,  ought  to  be  rarely  employed  ;  because 
poetical  excitement  is  not  required,  and  must  be 
impertinent,  when,  instead  of  the  passions  being 
moved  or  the  fancy  delighted,  the  mind  is  to  be 
instructed  in  abstract  truths,  informed  of  actual 
events,  disciplined  by  close  thinking,  or  entertained 
with  moral,  critical,  or  miscellaneous  speculations. 
In  novels  and  romances,  poetic  colouring,  grouping, 
and  invention  may  be  more  frequently  hazarded ; 
but  even  in  these  the  slightest  excess  is  repulsive 
to  good  taste. 

Verse  and  Prose. 

In  every  language,  barbarous  or  polished  (I  believe), 
there  are  two  modes  of  utterance— speaking  and 
singing  ;  and  two  kinds  of  cadence  m  the  collocation 
of  syllables,  corresponding  to  speech  and  song — 
prose  and  verse.  In  the  former,  the  rhythm  or 
cadence  is  allowed  to  flow  on,  without  interruption, 
into  lengths  and  subdivisions  of  period,  according  to 
ihe  requirements  of  the  subject-matter  ;  whereas  in 
I'erse.  whatever  be  the  ductility  or  refractoriness  of 
ihe  thouglits,  the  strain  is  limited  to  certain  suc- 
cessions and  recurrences  of  clauses,  not  only  in 
melodious  concatenation,  but  hiirmoniously  calling 
and  responding  to  each  otlier.  As  in  every  lan- 
guage there  have  been  found  traces  of  these  two 


70  THE    FORM   or   rOK'lTli'. 

distinct  forms  of  articulate  utterance  :  the  one,  from 
its  freedom,  plasticity,  and  phiinness  adaf  ted  to  the 
general  purposes  of  verbal  or  literary  intercourse ; 
the  other  confined  to  the  special  treatment  of  sub- 
jects in  their  poetical  view,  and  peculiarly  adapted 
to  this  by  the  music  of  numbers,  the  march  of  syl- 
lables, and  the  exuberance  of  ornament  which  these 
admit,  that  the  thoughts  themselves  may  be  exalted 
as  much  above  commonplace  notions  as  the  ca- 
dences in  which  they  are  conveyed  are  more  impos- 
ing than  th-e  irregular  movements  of  ordinary  dis 
course:  prose  and  verse,  from  tiiese  circumstances, 
are  sufficiently  distinct.  When,  therefore,  prose 
occasionally  (as  in  the  example  lately  quoted  from 
Dryden)  presents  poetical  associations,  and  awakens 
poetical  feelings,  it  departs  from  its  usual  and  poli- 
tic practice, — not  improperly,  for  this  is  permissible 
and  expedient  on  due  occasions;  but  no  good  writer 
will  be  found  frequently  thus  digressing.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  verse  employs  the  simplest  mode 
of  style  to  set  forth  objects  that  disdain  embellish- 
ment, it  departs  in  like  manner  from  its  usual  and 
politic  practice, — I  will  again  say,  not  improperly, 
for  this  is  permissible  and  expedient  on  due  occa- 
sions :  but  no  good  writer  will  be  found  frequently 
thus  digressing.  In  either  case,  the  abuse  of  a 
legitimate  privilege  destroys  the  very  character  of 
the  composition.  Prose  becomes  poetical  without 
the  fire  and  spirit  of  poetry  ;  and  verse  becomes 
prosaic  without  the  vigour  and  elasticity  of  prose. 
On  either  hand  it  is  graceful,  and  even  commend- 
able, for  masters  in  each  kind  of  composition — and 
if  duly  qualified,  they  are  expressly  licensed  by  the 
court  of  Apollo — to  sally  out  in  quest  of  game  into 
the  preserves  of  each  other,  expecting  and  allowing 
Te[irisals  ;  but  such  sportsmen,  in  the  fields  of  lite- 
rature, must  be  content  with  a  day's  shootirig  now 
and  then  upon  a  strange  manor,  and  not  make  a  win- 
ter's campaign  of  a  transient  diversian;  otherwise* 


THE    FORM    OF    I'OKTRY.  71 

at  the  bar  of  criticism,  they  may  be  made  igno- 
miniously  amenable  lor  their  trespasses. 

Thoug-h  1  have  not  presumed  to  define  poetry  in 
the  abstract,  some  conventional  meaning,  in  which 
it  will  be  expedient  hereafter  to  employ  the  term,  is 
necessary  here.  Poetry,  then,  in  the  sense  which  I 
propose  to  have  always  in  mind,  is  verse,  in  contra- 
distinction to  prose;  and  this  is  the  sense  (detine  and 
dispute  as  we  may  respecting  the  ethereal  quality 
itself)  m  which  everybody  uses  the  word.  Poetry, 
to  be  complete,  must  be  verse ;  and  all  the  wit  of 
man  cannot  supply  a  more  convenient  definition. 
Every  thing  else  which  may  be  insisted  on  as  essen- 
tial to  good  poetry  is  not  -peculiar  to  it,  but  may,  with 
due  discretion  and  happy  effect,  be  incorporated  in 
prose.  Poetry  cannot  be  separated  from  verse  with- 
out becoming  prose  ;  nor  can  prose  assume  the  form 
of  verse  without  ceasing  to  be  prose  altogether.  It 
is  true  that,  according  to  common  parlance,  poetry 
in  this  sense  may  be  prosaic,  that  is,  it  may  have 
the  ordinary  qualities  of  prose,  though  it  still  retain 
its  peculiar  vehicle, — metre  :  and  prose  may  be  po- 
etical, that  is,  it  may  be  invested  with  all  the  cus- 
tomary attributes  of  verse,  except  that  same  peculiar 
and  incommunicable  one — metre.  The  change,  how- 
ever, is  rarely  to  the  advantage  of  either. 

Yet  when  a  writer  of  fine  fancy  and  commanding 
powers  of  diction  (like  Dryden,  in  the  instance  lately 
quoted),  from  the  nature  and  inspiration  of  his 
subject  almost  unconsciously  grows  poetical — the 
poetry  of  his  thoughts,  images,  or  facts  comes  out  as 
naturally  as  a  blush  or  a  smile  over  a  beautiful  coun- 
tenance ;  his  pathos,  sublimity,  or  picturesque  de- 
scriptions are  in  season  and  in  place  ;  they  produce 
tl^eir  instant  effect,  and  are  gone,  like  the  smile  or 
the  blush,  while  we  are  gazing  upon  them,  leaving 
the  general  aspect  unchanged. 

Prosaic  verse,  everybody  knows,  is  what  any- 
body may  write,  and  nobody  will  endure  ;  nor,  in  a 


72  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

polite  age,  can  it,  under  any  circumstances,  be  ren- 
dered attractive.  But  poetical' prose,  though  the 
dullest,  heaviest,  clumsiest  kind  of  literature,  has, 
in  some  notorious  instances,  found  more  favour.  In 
French,  indeed,  from  the  absolute  v/ant  of  a  genuine 
poetical  diction, — neither  the  rhythm,  the  rhyme, 
nor  the  reason,  it  may  be  said  of  the  language,  allow- 
ing "  thoughts  that  JDreathe"  to  vent  themselves  in 
"  words  that  burn," — a  florid  prose  style  has  been 
adopted  with  signal  effect  in  the  TeUmaque  of  Fene- 
lon,  which  no  mastery  of  his  native  tongue  could 
have  made  tolerable  in  French  verse,  any  more  than 
the  most  consummate  mastery  of  our  own  could 
make  tolerable  to  a  good  ear  in  English  prose.  I 
cannot  stay  to  justify  this  remark,  but  I  am  sure  that 
it  is  correct. 

Some  works  of  this  description,  however,  have 
been  extensively  read  in  our  refractory  language  , 
but  their  day  is  gone  by.  The  pious  sentiments  of 
"  Hervey's  Meditations,"  recommended  the  fantas- 
tic style  m  which  they  were  disguised  to  multitudes, 
who  persuaded  themselves  that  they  were  pleased, 
because  they  supposed  that,  in  such  a  case,  they 
ought  to  be,  with  fine  words,  and  so  many  of  them. 
The  interesting  scenes,  circumstances,  and  actors  in 
"  The  Death  of  Abel,"  translated  from  the  German 
of  Gesner,  in  like  manner,  made  that  farrago  of  bad 
taste  a  favourite  book  for  nearly  half  a  century 
The  language  of  the  original,  indeed,  has  such  com- 
pass and  capabilities  for  every  kind  of  composition, 
that  poetical  prose,  and  even  prosaic  verse,  may  be 
made  agreeable  in  it ;  but  no  versions  of  either,  mto 
our  severe  and  uncompromising  tongue,  can  rise 
above  the  dead  level  of  mediocrity.  Ossian's  Poems, 
as  Macpherson's  rhapsodies  were  called,  obtained, 
in  their  turn,  a  sudden,  factitious,  and  deservedly 
transient  reputation.  From  whatever  relics  of  an- 
cient song  these  may  have  been  borrowed, — a  ques- 
tion with  wliich  we  have  nothing  to  do  at  present, — 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  73 

they  are  composed  in  such  "  a  Babylonish  dialect," 
that  it  might  be  presumed  no  ear,  accustomed  to 
the  melody  of  pure  verse  or  the  freedom  of  eloquent 
prose,  could  endure  the  incongruities  of  a  style  m 
which  broken  verse  of  various  measures  is  blended 
with  halting  prose  of  unmanageable  cadences  and 
compound  sentences,  as  difficult  to  read  and  as  dis- 
sonant to  hear  as  a  strain  of  music  would  be  in 
execution  and  effect,  if  every  bar  were  set  to  a  dif- 
ferent time  and  in  a  different  key.  Horace's  descrip- 
tion of  a  heterogeneous  body,  compiled  of  flesh,  fish, 
and  fowl,  to  make — certainly  no 

"  Some  fauUlexs  monster  which  the  world  ne'er  saw" — 

might  aptly  enough  be  applied  to  cliaracterize  th(; 
cacophonous  rhythm,  ill-jointed  clauses,  and  dislo- 
cated feet,  in  all  kinds  of  metre,  of  this  prodigious 
birth  of  a  distempered  brain  ;  in  which  iambics. 
trochees,  mapaests,  dactyls,  spondees,  and  every 
form  of  syllable,  word,  accent,  or  quantity,  that  can 
enter  into  English  sentences,  are  jumbled  in  juxta- 
position, like  disrupted  strata,  where  convulsions  of 
nature  have  thrown  down  mountains  and  heaved  up 
valleys. 

Characteristics  of  Prose  and  Vei'se. 

There  is  reason  as  well  as  custom  in  that  conven- 
tional simplicity  which  best  becomes  prose,  and  that 
conventional  ornament  which  is  allowed  to  verse  ; 
but  splendid  ornament  is  no  more  essential  to  verse 
than  naked  simplicity  is  to  prose.  The  gravest 
cirtics  place  tragedy  in  the  highest  rank  of  poetical 
achievements, — 

"  Sometimes  let  gorgeous  Tragedy, 
With  sceptre<l  pall,  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Trov  divine."-  -//  Pmscro»o 


74  THK    FOKM    OF    POETRY. 

Yet  the  noblest,  most  impassioned  s»  enes  are  fre- 
quently distinguished  from  prose  only  by  the  cadence 
of  the  verse  :  which,  in  this  species  of  composition, 
is  permitted  to  be  so  loose,  tiiat  where  the  diction 
is  the  most  exquisite  the  melody  of  the  rhythm  can 
scarcely  be  perceived  except  by  the  nicest  ear. 
King-  Lear,  driven  to  madness  by  the  ingratitude  and 
cruelty  of  his  two  elder  daughters,  is  found  by  the 
youngest,  Cordelia,  asleep  upon  a  bed,  in  a  tent  in 
the  French  camp,  after  having  passed  the  night  in  the 
open  air,  exposed  to  the  fury  of  the  elements  during 
a  tremendous  thunder-storm.  A  physician  and  at- 
tendants are  watching  over  the  sufferer.  Wiiile  the 
dutiful  daugiiter  is  pouring  out  her  heart  in  tender- 
ness over  him,  recounting  his  wrongs,  his  afflictions, 
and  the  horrors  of  the  storm,  the  king  awakes  ; — bui 
we  will  take  the  scene  itself.  After  some  inquiries, 
concerning  his  royal  patient,  the  physician  asks  .— = 

"  So  please  your  majesty, 
That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?    He  hath  slept  long. 

CORDELIA. 

Be  govern''!  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
r  th'  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  arrayed  ? 

GENTLEMAN. 

Ay,  madam  ;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep, 
We  put  fresli  garments  on  him. 

IMIYSICIAN. 

Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him; 
1  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

CORDELIA. 

Very  well. 

PHVSICIAN. 

Please  you  draw  near.     Louder  the  music  there 

CORDELIA. 

0':i,  my  dear  father  !     Restoration  hang 
T  ay  medicine  on  my  lips  ;  and  let  this  kiss 
K  3pair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
t.  ^ve  in  thy  reverence  made ' 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  75 


Kind  and  dear  princess* ! 

CORDELIA. 

Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 

Had  challenged  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 

To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds? 

To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick,  cross  lightning  ?  *        *        *        * 

*****         TMine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  Irave  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire. — And  wast  tliou  fain,  poor  father, 

To  hovel  thee  with  swine  and  rogues  forlorn. 

In  short  and  musty  straw  ?   Alack  !  alack  ! 

'Tis  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 

Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 

PHYSICIAN. 

Madam,  do  you ;  'tis  fittest. 

CORDELIA. 

How  does  my  royal  lord?    How  fares  your  majesty? 

I.EAR. 

You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave  .  -— 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss,  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire. 

CORDELIA. 

Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

I.EAR. 

You  are  a  spirit,  I  know ;  when  did  you  die? 

CORDELIA. 

Still,  still  far  wide. 

PHYSICIAN. 

He's  scarce  awake  ;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

LEAK. 

Where  have  I  been?    Where  am  I  ?    Fair  daylight  f-r. 
I  am  mightily  abused. — 1  should  even  die  with  pitj, 
To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands : — let's  see. 
(  feel  this  pin  prick. — Would  I  were  assured 
3f  my  condition ! 


70  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 


CORDELIA. 


O  look  upon  me,  sir ! 
And  hold  3'our  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me  : — 
Nay,  sir^  you  must  not  kneel. 


Pray,  do  not  mock  me , 
1  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man. 
Fourscore  and  upward  ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man ; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful ;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is ,  and  all  the  skill  1  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night. — Do  not  laugh  at  me, 
For,  as  I  am  a  man.  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia  ! 

CORDELIA. 

And  so  I  am ;  I  am." 

It  cannot  he  doubted  that  the  whole  of  this  scene 
is  poetry  of  the  highest  proof;  and  yet,  except  in  the 
passage  referring  to  the  storm  (in  which  those  won- 
derful lines  descriptive  of  the  lightning  might  have 
been  struck  out  by  the  flash  itself),  there  is  scarcely 
a  phrase  which  could  not  have  been  employed  in  the 
humblest  prose  record  of  this  conversation.  Try 
the  experiment :  break  up  the  rhytlim,  the  only  thing 
that  constitutes  the  lines  verse,  and  mark  the  issue  : 
the  same  sentiments  will  remain,  in  nearly  the  same 
words ;  yet  the  latter  being  dilTerently  collocated, 
and  wanting  the  inimitable  cadence  of  such  verse  as 
none  but  vShakspeare  has  been  able  to  construct,  the 
charm  will  he  broken,  and  the  pathos  subdued,  though 
no  mutilation  could  destroy  it.  How  much  the 
power  of  poetry  depends  upon  the  nice  inflections 
of  rhythm  alone  may  be  proved,  by  taking  the  finest 
passages  of  Milton  or  Shakspeare,  and  merely  putting 
them  into  prose,  with  the  least  possible  variation  of 
the  words  themselves.  The  attempt  would  be  like 
gathering  up   dewdrops,  which  appear  jewels  and 


TKK    FOUM    OF     POKTKV.  It 

pearls  oi?  the  grass,  but  run  into  water  in  the  hand ; 
the  essence  and  the  elements  remain,  but  the  grace, 
the  sparkle,  and  the  form  are  gone. 

But,  independent  of  the  metrical  arrangement  of 
syllables,  there  is  an  indescribable  mannerism  which 
distinguishes  poetry  from  prose.  This  may  be  best 
appreiiended  from  an  example, — it  shall  be  an  illus- 
trious one, — of  the  ?ame  subject,  treated  with  con- 
summate ability  by  the  same  hand,  in  story  and  in 
song.  The  latter,  however,  though  the  poetry  is 
manifest  in  every  clause,  is  not  metrically  rendered 
in  the  only  language  through  which  it  can  be  pre- 
sented here.  I  allude  to  the  escape  of  the  children 
of  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  and  their  passage  through 
the  Red  Sea.  The  history  of  this  event  is  given 
in  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  the  book  of  Exodus,  and 
the  choral  celebration  of  it  follows  in  the  fifteenth. 
It  must  be  confessed,  in  this  instance,  that  there  is 
such  dignity  in  the  strict  narrative,  that  the  song, 
which  goes  over  the, same  ground  step  by  step, 
scarcely  produces  an  equal  impression  upon  the 
mind  of  the  reader.  Two  brief  extracts  may  be 
contrasted,  in  which  the  mannerism, — it  is  a  mean 
word,  but  I  cannot  find  one  nearer  to  the  peculiar 
sense  at  which  I  aim, — the  mannerism  of  the  two 
distinct  modes  of  human  language,  prose  and  verse, 
will  be  easily  recognised. 

"  And  the  children  of  Israel  went  into  the  midst 
of  the  sea,  upon  the  dry  ground,  and  the  w^aters  were 
a  wall  unto  them,  on  the  right-hand  and  on  the  left. 

"  And  the  Egyptians  pursued,  and  went  in  after 
them  to  the  midst  of  the  sea ;  even  all  Pharaoh's 
horses,  his  chariots,  and  his  horsemen. 

"  And  it  came  to  pass,  that  in  the  morning-watch, 
the  Lord  looked  unto  the  host  of  the  Egyptians 
through  the  pillar  of  fire  and  of  the  cloud,  and 
troubled  the  host  of  the  Egyptians. 

"  And  took  off  their  chariot-wheels,  that  they  drave 
heavily ;  so  that  the  Egyptians  said, '  Let  us  flef^  Trono 


78  THE    FORM    OF    POKTRY. 

the  face  of  Israel,  for  the  Lord  fig-hteth  for  them 
against  the  Eg-yptians.' 

"And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  'Stretch  out 
thine  hand  over  the  sea,  that  the  waters  may  come 
again  upon  the  Egyptians,  upon  their  chariots  and 
upon  their  horsemen.' 

"  And  Moses  stretched  forth  his  hand  over  the 
sea,  and  the  sea  returned  to  his  strength  when  the 
morning  appeared,  and  the  Egyptians  fled  against  it; 
and  the  Lord  overthrew  the  Egyptians  in  the  midst 
of  the  sea. 

"  And  the  waters  returned,  and  covered  the  char 
iots,  and  the  horsemen,  and  all  the  host  of  Pharaoh 
that  came  into  the  sea  after  them ;  there  remained 
not  so  much  as  one  of  them. 

"  Thus  the  Lord  saved  Israel  that  day  out  of  the 
hand  of  the  Egyptians  ;  and  Israel  saw  the  Egyptians 
dead  upon  the  seashore." — Exodus  xv.  22-30. 

I  know  nothing  in  human  composition,  nor  even 
in  the  inspired  volume  itself,  in  majesty  of  fact  equal 
to  this ;  where  the  statement  is  so  perfectly  simple, 
and  yet  so  strong,  event  after  event  in  the  series 
being  developed  without  effort  or  exaggeration, 
while  every  sentence  is  a  step  onward  to  the  awful 
unescapable  catastrophe,  which  is  neither  hurried 
by  an  elision,  nor  retarded  by  a  pleonasm.  I  cannot 
proceed  without  reverting  for  a  moment  to  the 
wonderful  apparition  in  the  third  clause,  on  which 
the  entire  issue  depends.  No  real  or  figurative 
manifestation  of  Deity  in  the  Old  or  New  Testanient 
approaches  this  in  circumstantial  clearness  of  ac- 
companiments. 

"And  it  came  to  jiass,  that  in  tlie  morning-watch, 
the  Lord  looked  unto  the  host  of  the  Egyptians 
through  th(?  pillar  of  fire  and  of  the  cloud,  and 
troubled  the  host  of  the  Egyptians." 

Here,  indeed,  as  in  the  holy  mount,  there  is  no 
similitude  of  the  Divine  presence;  yet  the  time 


THK    FOFtM    OF    POETRV.  79 

"the  mo^-rtw-'Av-watch," — the  station,  "the  pillar  of 
%e  and  of  the  cloud," — the  act,  "  the  Lord  looked 
<iut," — are  all  so  graphically  given,  that  it  may 
almost  be  said — 

"  Invisible  appears  in  sight 
And  God  is  seen  by  mortal  eye." 

C.  Wesley. 

In  the  next  chapter,  the  same  events  are  celebrated 
^  strains  of  the  highest  poetry ;  and  mark  the  dif- 
ference of  manner.  In  the  history,  it  is  recorded 
for  information,  that  so  it  came  to  pass ;  in  the  song, 
the  particulars  are  referred  to  as  already  known :  what 
in  prose  is  circumstantially  narrated,  in  verse  is 
merely  touched  on  by  allusion,  or  splendidly  ampli- 
fied for  ideal  effect.  Thus  in  the  one, — "  The  waters 
were  a  wall  unto  them  on  their  right-hand  and  their 
left."  This  is  plain  fact,  supported  by  an  ordinary 
metaphor.     But  hear  the  poet : — 

"  With  the  blast  of  thy  nostrils,  the  waters  were 
gathered  together;  the  floods  stood  upright  in  a 
heap ;  and  the  depths  were  congealed  in  the  heart  of 
the  sea." — The  blast,  the  gathering  together  of  the 
waters,  the  floods  standing  upright,  and  the  congela- 
tion of  the  depths  "  in  the  heart  of  the  sea,"  are  all 
acts,  images,  or  consequences,  in  the  boldest  style  of 
poetic  conception.  This  single  instance  will  ex- 
emplify the  diff'erence  of  handling  in  the  two  con- 
trasted forms  of  prose  and  verse.  The  historian 
confines  himself  wholly  to  what  happened  at  the 
time  and  upon  the  spot.  The  poet,  after  having 
expatiated  on  these,  becomes  a  prophet,  looks  to  the 
issues,  and  foretels  them.  The  enemies  of  Israel 
shall  be  smitten  with  terror  when  tliey  hear  these 
tidings;  while  to  the  ransomed  tribes,  their  recent 
deliverance  through  the  Red  Sea  is  a  pledge  that  tlie 
Lord  will  accomplish  the  whole  of  the  oath  which 
he  sware  unto  Abraham,  to  Isaac,  and  to  Jacob,  to 
give  to  their   posterity  the  land   of  Canaan   for  a 


so  THE    FORM    OF    POFTRY. 

possession.  I  quote  the  paragraphs  without  furthei 
comment: — 

"  The  nations  shall  hear  and  be  afraid ;  sorrow 
shall  take  hold  on  the  inhabitants  of  Palestina. 

"The  dukes  of  Edom  shall  be  amazed;  the 
mighty  men  of  Moab,  trembling',  shall  take  hold  of 
them ;  all  the  inhabitants  of  Canaan  shall  melt 
away. 

"  Fear  and  dread  shall  fall  upon  them  ;  by  the 
greatness  of  tliine  arm  they  shall  be  as  still  as  a 
stone,  till  thy  people  pass  over.  0  Lord !  till  the 
people  pass  over  which  Thou  hast  purchased. 

"  Thou  shalt  bring  them  in,  and  plant  them  in  the 
mountain  of  thine  inheritance  ;  in  the  place,  0  Lord  ! 
which  thou  hast  made  for  thee  to  dwell  in;  in  the 
sanctuary,  0  Lord !  which  thy  hands  have  estab- 
lished."—£,xWi^5  xv.  14-17. 

Jeremy  Taylor, 

While  we  are  considering  poetry  and  prose  as 
mighty,  yea,  and  worthy  competitors  in  the  same 
field  of  action,  equally  employing  w^eapons  of  finest 
temper,  keenest  edge,  and  brightest  polish,  we  may 
state  that  those  of  our  countrymen  who  have  most 
excelled  in  that  style  of  prose  which  nearest  resem- 
bles poetry  are  Jeremy  Taylor,  John  Howe,  and 
Richard  Baxter,  divines  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  Gibbon,  Burke,  Johnson,  and  the  author  of  the 
Letters  of  Junius,  in  the  century  following.  A  few 
remarks  on  the  prince  of  this  class  of  writers,  Jeremy 
Taylor,  sometime  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor,  may 
not  be  out  of  place  here.  A  paragraph  from  the  first 
section  of  his  "  Holy  Dying"  will  properly  introduce 
these :  — 

"  Every  day's  necessity  calls  for  reparation  of  that 
portion  which  Death  fed  on  all  night,  when  we  lay 
in  his  lap,  and  slept  in  his  outer  chambers.  The  very 
.■spirits  of  a  man  prey  upon  the  daily  portion  of  bread 


TMK    FORM     OF     I'OKTRY.  81 

and  flesh,  and  every  meal  is  a  rescue  from  one  death, 
and  lays  up  for  another;  and  while  we  think  a  thought 
we  die  ;  and  the  clock  strikes,  and  reckons  on  our 
portion  of  eternity.  We  form  our  words  with  the 
breath  of  our  nostrils ;  we  have  the  less  to  live  upon 
for  every  word  we  speak.  *        *        *        * 

"Nature  hath  given  us  one  harvest  every  year, 
but  Death  hath  two  ;  and  the  spring  and  the  autumn 
send  throngs  of  men  and  women  to  charnel-houses  ; 
and  all  the  summer  long  men  are  recovering  from  the 
evils  of  the  spring,  till  the  dog-days  come,  and  then 
the  Syrian  star  makes  the  summer  deadly.  And  the 
fruits  of  autumn  are  laid  up  for  all  the  year's  pro- 
vision ;  and  the  man  that  gathers  them  eats,  and 
surfeits,  ajid  dies,  and  needs  them  not,  and  himself  is 
laid  up  for  eternity ;  and  he  that  escapes  till  winter 
only  stays  for  another  opportunity,  which  the  dis- 
tempers of  that  quarter  minister  to  him  with  great 
variety.  Thus  Death  reigns  in  all  the  portions  of  our 
time.  The  autumn  with  its  fruits  provides  disorders 
for  us,  and  winter's  cold  turns  them  into  sharp  dis- 
eases ;  and  the  spring  brings  flowers  to  strew  our 
hearse,  and  the  summer  gives  green  turf  and  bram- 
bles to  bind  upon  our  graves.  Calentures  and  sur- 
feits, colds  and  agues,  are  the  four  quarters  of  the 
year,  and  all  minister  to  death ;  and  you  can  go  no 
whither  but  you  tread  on  dead  men's  bones." 

Amid  all  this  accumulation  of  thoughts,  power  of 
diction,  opulence  of  imagery,  shifting  of  scenes, 
alternate  darkness  and  light,  splendour,  beauty,  and 
horror,  life,  death,  time,  and  eternity — the  mind  of 
the  reader  is  bewildered,  dehghted,  astonished,  over- 
Avhelmed  ;  and  at  length  retires  into  itself  exhausted, 
with  very  little  recollection  of  the  strange  process 
which  it  has  undergone,  while  submitted  to  the  spell 
of  the  orator.  I  say  the  orator,  because,  rich  as  the 
passage  is  in  poetical  materials,  there  can  hardly  be 
pointed  out  more  than  two  strokes  of  pure  poetry  in 
the  whole  : — "  When  we  lay  in  Death's  lap,  and  slept 
G 


82  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

in  his  outer  chambers  ,•"  and  the  offices  of  the  sea 
sons; — "Autumn  with  its  fruits  provides  disorders 
for  us  ;  winter's  cold  turns  them  into  sharp  diseases ; 
spring  brings  tiowers  to  5/ret(;  our  hearse;  summer 
gives  green  turf  and  brambles  to  bind  upon  our 
graves."  All  the  rest  is  rhetorical,  the  result  of 
hard  thinking  and  strong  memory,  with  little  of  quick 
fancy  or  deep  feeling.  There  are  seven  pages  of 
the  same  kind  in  the  context,  v;hich  rather  resemble 
an  inventory  of  ideas  and  metaphors,  than  a  select 
and  well-harmonized  array  of  such  as  would  best 
impress  the  mind  and  affect  the  heart,  on  the  most 
solemn  of  all  subjects — man's  mortality.  And  such 
is  the  general  character  of  composition  in  the  multi- 
tudinous works  of  this  "  old  man  eloquent."  He  is 
never  carried  away  by  the  fervency  of  passion ;  he 
always  preserves  presence  of  mind  and  self-posses- 
sion ;  he  can  draw  upon  the  treasures  of  his  imagina- 
tion to  any  amount,  and  can  multiply  examples  and 
ilustrations  at  leisure,  to  enforce  his  arguments  v/ith 
what  may  be  called  "  cumulative  evidence."  His 
crowded  sentences  are  like  piles  of  magnificent  fur- 
niture in  the  upholsterer's  show-rooms — not  taste- 
fully displayed  in  the  halls  and  saloons  of  a  royal 
palace.  They  resemble  instruments  of  war  curiously 
displayed  in  a  national  armory — not  glittering  from 
afar,  like  those  of  well-appointed  legions  marching 
to  battle.  The  sight  of  a  single  weapon,  worn  by  a 
known  hero,  would  impress  the  imagination  more 
than  the  holyday  spectacle  of  all  the  artillery  in  the 
Tower,especially  if  the  possessor  had  achieved  some 
great  feat  with  it.  The  sword  of  Goliath  was  glo- 
rious and  terrible  in  the  giant's  own  grasp  ;  but  was 
it  not  a  thousand  times  more  awful  to  look  upon  in 
the  hand  of  David,  the  stripling,  when  he  had  cut 
off  with  it  the  head  of  him  who  alone  seemed  strong 
enough  to  wield  it  ?  It  is  not  things  themselves,  but 
the  associations  which  they  awaken,  that  constitute 
the  spirit  and  essence  of  poetry 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  83 

Hence,  with  all  his  genius,  learning,  and  indus- 
try, Jeremy  Taylor  never  could  be  a  poet,  because 
he  never  went  beyond  himself — beside  himself,  if 
you  w^ill.  He  has  put  the  question  beyond  doubt  • 
he  tried  verse  ;  but  his  lines  are  like  petrifactions, 
glittering,  and  hard,  and  cold  ;  formed  by  a  slow  but 
certain  process  in  the  laboratory  of  abstract  thought ; 
not  like  flowers,  springing  spontaneously  from  a 
kindly  soil,  fresh,  and  fragrant,  and  blooming  in 
open  day.  The  erudite  divine  is  always  in  his  study. 
He  never  goes  out  to  meditate  in  the  field  at  even- 
tide, as  Isaac  did;  of  whom  it  is  recorded,  that 
"  when  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  behold,  the  camels  were 
coming.  And  Rebekah,  when  she  saw  Isaac,  lighted 
off  her  camel,  and  took  a  veil  and  covered  herself." 
Thus  Beauty  comes  to  meet  the  poet  in  his  solitary 
walk  ;  reveals  herself  for  a  moment,  then  hides  her 
countenance,  conscious  of  worth 

"  That  would  be  woo'd,  and  not  unsought  be  won." 

I  have  not  disparaged  this  great  man ;  I  have  only 
contended,  that,  full  of  poetic  materials  as  hiii  prose 
is,  those  materials  are  seldom  poetically  disposed 
His  productions,  however,  show,  that  even  without 
metrical  arrangement,  the  English  language  can  sus- 
tain its  dignity  under  the  most  gorgeous  array  of 
diction,  prodigality  of  thought,  and  heraldic  blazonry 
of  illustration.  Our  writers,  therefore,  who  love  a 
florid  style,  have  no  pretext  for  betaking  themselves 
to  "  prose  run  mad,"  and  dressing  out  their  thoughts 
as  fantastically  as  Lear  in  his  phrensy.  If  they  could 
make  them  rave  as  sublimely  as  the  poor  crazed 
king — why,  then  they  might  be  forgiven. 

Hebrew  Poetry, 

We  conclude  that  poetry,  in  its  technical  form, 
must  be  verse.     Verse  is  of  various  kinds,  according 


84  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY 

to  the  language,  the  taste,  and  degree  of  civilizatjun 
among  the  people  who  employ  it.  The  most  an- 
cient and  simple  (apparently)  is  the  Hebrew;  pre- 
suming-, as  we  must,  that  the  Psalms,  Prophecies, 
and  certain  other  portions  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures 
are  not  poetical  in  substance  only,  but  that  they 
are  metrical  in  the  original.  The  secret,  however, 
wherein  their  rhythm  consisted,  is  irrecoverably 
lost ;  the  language  itself  being  only  preserved  in  the 
skeleton  form  of  consonants,  with  a  very  inadequate 
supply  of  vowels ;  and  the  words  (independent  of 
the  masoretic  points)  resembling,  if  the  figure  may  be 
allowed,  those  decayed  leaves  which  we  find  in  the 
forest  in  winter,  of  which  nothing  but  fibres  remain, 
like  curious  and  delicate  net-work.  But  in  the  artful 
structure  of  the  sentences,  in  their  melodious  move- 
ment at  times,  and  more  especially  in  their  corres- 
ponding members  (as  though  every  clause  had  its 
tally,  every  sound  its  echo,  every  image  its  reflec- 
tion, and  every  thought  its  double),  we  may  discover 
that  the  poetical  portions  of  the  Old  Testament  are 
in  verse,  of  which  the  precise  laws  are  no  longer 
remembered. 

Bishop  Lowth,  the  greatest  authority  on  this  sub- 
ject, says, — "The  harmony  and  true  modulation 
depend  upon  a  perfect  pronunciation  of  the  language, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  principles  and  rules  of  versi- 
fication; and  metre  supposes  an  exact  knowledge 
of  the  number  and  quantity  of  syllables,  and,  in  some 
languages,  of  accent.  But  the  true  pronunciation 
of  Hebrew  is  lost — lost  to  a  degree  far  beyond  what 
can  be  the  case  of  any  European  language  preserved 
only  in  writing;  for  the  Hebrew,  like  most  oriental 
languages,  expressing  only  the  consonants,  and  being 
destitute'of  the  vowels,  has  lain  now  for  two  thou- 
sand years  mnte  and  incapable  of  utterance.  The 
number  of  syllables  in  a  great  many  words  is  uncer- 
tain ;  the  quantity  ;uid  accent  are  wholly  unknown." 
"The  masoretical punctuation,"  which  professes  to 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  85 

supply  the  vowels,  was  formed  a  thousand  years 
after  the  language  had  ceased  to  be  spoken ;  and 
is  "  discordant  in  many  instances,  from  the  imper- 
fect remains  of  a  pronunciation  of  much  eadier  date, 
and  better  authority, — that  of  the  Seventy,  of  Origen, 
and  other  writers ;"  "and  it  must  be  allowed  that 
no  one,  according  to  this,  has  been  able  to  reduce 
the  Hebrew  poems  to  any  kind  of  harmony." 

It  is  certain  that  Hebrew  verse  did  not  include 
rhyme  ;  the  terminations  of  the  lines,  when  they  are 
most  distinct,  never  manifesting  any  thing  of  the 
kind.  Acrostic  or  alphabetical  arrangement,  as  in 
the  119th  Psalm,  is  found  in  several  instances  ;  and 
was  adopted,  no  doubt,  for  the  purpose  of  aiding  the 
memory  of  the  learner,  or  the  reciter. 

Parallelism  is  a  principal  feature  in  Hebrew 
verse : 

"  He  spake,  and  it  was  done ;  He  commanded,  and 
it  stood  fast." — Psalm  xxxiii.  9. 

"  Let  the  wicked  forsake  his  way,  and  the  un- 
righteous man  his  thoughts:  and  let  him  return 
unto  the  Lord,  and  He  will  have  mercy  upon  him  ; 
and  to  our  God,  for  He  will  abundantly  pardon." — 
Isa.  Iv.  7. 

Every  phrase,  indeed  almost  every  word,  has  its 
response  in  these  quotations.  I  have  chosen  the 
common  version,  in  preference  to  that  of  the  learned 
prelate,  because  it  is  more  simple  (in  the  foregoing 
and  following  cases),  and,  from  being  famihar,  is 
more  easily  intelligible  when  addressed  to  the  ear. 
That  organ,  though  marvellously  quick  in  appre- 
hending sounds  and  their  collocation,  to  which  it 
has  been  accustomed,  finds  it  exceedingly  difficult  to 
follow  (In  verse  especially)  new  phrases  and  strange 
thoughts.  On  the  other  hand,  in  reading,  the  eije  can 
dwell  more  intensely  on  the  distinct  verbiage ;  hav- 
ing, in  this  respect,  the  advantage  of  the  ear,  because 
in  moving  along  the  little  horizon  of  the  page,  it 
catches  glimpses  of  words  to  come,  while  it  retains 


86  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

the  receding  traces  of  those  that  are  passed  ;  and 
thus  is  enabled  to  gather  up  the  meaning,  as  it 
unfolds,  from  the  scope  both  of  the  text  and  the 
nontext :  for  sight,  like 

*'  The  spider's  touch,  so  exquisitely  fine, 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line ;" 

JEscay  on  Man. 

whereas  the  ear  can  only  connect  the  successive 
sounds  as  they  are  pronounced,  with  those  that  are 
gone  by,  which  are  often  imperfectly  caught,  and 
more  faintly  remembered,  as  the  discourse  proceeds. 
I  make  the  remark  here,  but  apply  it  generally  to  the 
passages  of  verse  which  I  may  quote  in  these  papers : 
having  (for  the  most  part)  deliberately  chosen  those 
which  may  be  deemed  commonplace,  because  such 
will  be  best  understood  by  the  hearers,  from  my 
ineffective  recitation. 

Bishop  Lowth  exhibits  various  forms  of  Hebrew 
stanzas  (manifestly  such  to  the  eye,  and  not  alto- 
gether imperceptible  by  the  ear),  consisting  of  two, 
three,  four,  and  even  five  lines,  admirably  impli- 
cated and  symmetrical,  from  the  disposition  of  the 
parallelisms,  and  other  poetic  symbols. 

Antithesis  is  the  second  characteristic  of  Hebrew 
verse.  The  Book  of  Proverbs  abounds  with  this 
figure. 

"  Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick :  but 
when  the  desire  cometh,  it  is  a  tree  of  life." — Prov. 
xiii.  12. 

"  The  mountains  shall  depart,  and  the  hills  shall 
be  removed  ;  but  my  kindness  shall  not  depart  from 
thee,  neither  shall  tlie  covenant  of  mv  peace  be 
removed." — Isa.  liv.  10. 

Amplification  is  the  third  prevailing  feature. 

"As  the  cloud  is  consumed,  and  vanisheth  away; 
so  he  that  goeth  down  to  the  grave  shall  come  up 
no  more.     He  shall  return  no  more  to  his  house ; 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  87 

neither  shall  his  place  know  him  any  more." — 
Job  "M.  9,  10. 

*'  How  goodly  are  thy  tents,  O  Jacob !  and  thy 
tabernacles,  O  Israel !  As  the  valleys  are  they 
spread  forth ;  as  gardens  by  the  river-side  ;  as  the 
trees  of  lign-aloes  which  the  Lord  hath  planted, 
and  as  cedar-trees  beside  the  waters." — Numbers 
xxiv.  56. 

Compare  the  harmonious  cadences  of  this  fine 
prose  in  our  own  old  version  of  Holy  Writ,  with  tiie 
halting,  dancing,  lumbering,  grating,  nondescript 
paragraphs  in  Macpherson's  Ossian. 

Greek  and  Latin  Prosody. 

The  metres  of  Greek  and  Roman  verse  are  the 
glories  of  those  two  languages :  the  one,  the  most 
copious,  opulent,  and  flexible  ;  the  other,  the  most 
condensed  and  energetic  of  any  that  are  well  known. 
These  two  tongues  contain  treasures  of  literature, 
esteemed  by  the  learned  above  all  that  time  has 
spared  of  the  works  of  past  generations  ;  principally, 
no  doubt,  for  their  intrinsic  value,  but  partly,  also, 
on  account  of  their  rarity  and  antiquity ;  and  yet 
more  so  from  the  impulse  of  our  own  early  preju- 
dices in  their  favour,  and  those  noble,  venerable, 
and  beautiful  affinities  which  they  hold  with  all  that 

"  Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreeteet,  best." 

Milton. 

among  the  most  extraordinary  people  of  the  old 
world ;  living,  as  they  did,  in  the  light  of  nature,  but 
under  circumstances  peculiarly  favourable  to  the 
development  of  every  kind  of  talent ;  who  cultivated 
all  the  fine  arts,  and  carried,  as  we  liave  ocular  dem- 
onstration, history,  eloquence,  poetry,  architecture, 
and  sculpture,  even  to  the  vanishing  point  of  perfec- 
tion.    Nor,  in  the   abstruse   sciences,  were   their 


88  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

attainments  less  admirable  ;  while,  in  music  and 
painting  —  from  contemporaneous  testimony  and 
analog-y  with  their  other  accomplishments — we  may 
presume  that  they  had  reached  an  exquisite  pro- 
ficiency ;  yet,  from  their  ignorance  of  thorough  bass 
in  the  one,  and  the  perfect  management  of  lights 
and  shadows  in  the  other,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine 
that  in  these  they  could  compete  with  the  greatest 
masters  and  practitioners  of  modern  times. 

The  construction  of  Greek  and  Latin  verse  is 
pretty  well  understood  ;  indeed,  the  theory  may  be 
considered  as  quite  made  out  by  rule  and  precedent ; 
but,  after  all,  the  true  pronunciation  of  both  languages 
having  been  in  a  great  degree  forgotten,  our  mode 
of  giving  utterance  to  their  metres  must  be  exceed- 
ingly imperfect;  although  we  can  ascertain  the 
number  of  syllables  in  every  word,  and  designate  the 
quantity  of  each  syllable ;  and  notwithstanding  the 
wonderful  precision  with  which  the  most  doubtful 
and  difficult  passages  can  be  analyzed ;  the  most 
corrupt  amended,  if  not  restored ;  and  the  authen- 
ticity even  of  accredited  readings  tried  by  tests  as 
subtle,  and  almost  as  infallible,  as  those  employed  in 
modern  chymistry.  Nothing,  indeed,  in  human 
learning,  human  sagacity,  or  human  taste,  is  more 
remarkable  than  the  skill  manifested  by  the  Bent- 
leys  and  Porsons  of  our  days,  in  detecting  all  the 
niceties  of  a  dead  language  ;  yet,  from  the  very  cir- 
cumstances of  the  language  being  de?i6, — though  the 
anatomy  of  every  nerve  and  sinew  be  correctly  de- 
monstrated,— the  life  itself  being  gone,  something 
must  be  wanting  which  cannot  be  seen,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  which  must  be  felt.  Hence  our  perception 
of  classical  rhythm  must  be  rendered  so  defective, 
that  the  most  perfect  tact  of  verbal  criticism  is  but 
like  the  fine  touch  of  the  blind  man,  whereby  he 
ascertains  the  forms  of  substances  submitted  to  it, 
while  there  is,  in  his  apprehension,  an  undefinable 
accession  of  knowledge  possessed  by  others,  which 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  89 

could  only  be  communicated  to  him  by  the  opening 
of  his  eyes, — thougrh  what  that  phrase  means,  in 
reference  to  a  fifth  sense  which  he  has  not,  he  can 
no  more  conceive  than  we  can  of  a  sixth  which  does 
not  exist. 

The  difference  between  the  common  reading  and 
the  scanning,  according  to  the  laws  of  prosody,  of  a 
Greek  or  Latin  hexameter  line  (for  example)  is  so 
great  with  modern  scholars,  that  it  is  almost  as  dif- 
ficult to  imagine  how  these  could  have  been  ren- 
dered correspondent,  so  as  to  make  the  ancient  pro- 
nunciation the  same  in  prose  and  in  verse  (as  it 
must  have,  been,  and  as  it  is  in  every  living  tongue), 
it  is  almost  as  difficult  to  imagine  how  this  could 
have  been,  as  how  such  light  might  be  let  in  to  the 
mind's  eye  of  a  man  born  blind,  as  would  supply  the 
lack  of  sight  to  his  bodily  eye,  and  enable  him,  with- 
out the  latter,  to  distinguish  coloiurs,  or  even  to  con- 
ceive the  idea  of  colour. 

The  different  methods  of  pronouncing  the  learned 
languages,  which  obtain  among  scholars  of  different 
nations,  according  to  the  alphabetical  sounds  of  their 
own,  make  them  barbarians  to  one  another  when 
they  would  converse  in  Greek  or  Latin.  Our  coun- 
trymen, especially,  must  be  nearly  unintelligible  to 
continentals,  in  much  of  their  utterance  of  those 
very  words,  on  the  collocation  of  which  all  (in  their 
peculiar  way)  dwell  with  rapture,  and  expatiate  with 
eloquence.  I  speak  of  the  general  extravagant  style 
of  classical  critics, — with  which  no  other  theme  can 
inspire  them.  Hence,  however  perfect  in  theory 
modern  prosody  may  be,  in  practice  it  stumbles  on 
the  threshold  ;  and  it  is  perhaps  a  thousand  years  or 
more  since  a  line  of  Homer  or  Virgil  has  been  re- 
peated in  the  same  manner  as  Virgil  or  Homer  would 
have  spoken  it, — that  is,  with  the  sound  which  the 
one  or  the  other  had  in  his  ear  when  he  composed 
it.  It  is  even  a  question,  whether  the  most  sono- 
rous and  magnificent  period  of  Cicero  could  now  be 
H 


90  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

read  so  as  the  orator  himself  would  have  easily  en- 
derstood  it. 

This  is  an  exceedingly  curious  and  complex  sub- 
ject, and  quite  unfit  to  be  discussed  in  a  popular 
essay,  were  the  writer  himself  confidently  master 
of  it,  which  he  pretends  not  to  be.  It  is,  however, 
/lecessary  to  state,  that  notwithstanding  our  doubts, 
or  to  speak  plainly,  our  ignorance,  of  the  manner  in 
which  Greek  and  Latin  metres  were  recited,  when  a 
single  line — an  hexameter,  for  instance — might  vary 
from  thirteen  to  seventeen  syllables,  so  that  six  con- 
secutive lines  might  be  of  so  many  different  lengths, 
while  the  minor  changes  are  scarcely  computable, — 
there  yet  is  found  among  the  relics  of  classical  song, 
whether  read  with  the  accents  observed  in  prose,  or 
according  to  the  technical  rules  of  metre,  such  ac- 
cordance, strength,  flexibility,  and  sweetness,  in  the 
combination  and  succession  of  sounds,  that  we  feel, 
though  we  cannot  tell  how — we  feel  that  there  was 
a  harmony,  grace,  and  perfection  in  ancient  num- 
bers, which  modern  languages,  in  their  best  estate, 
have  few  capabilities  of  rivalling. 

The  incompetence  of  the  latter  may  be  traced, 
priii^iarily,  to  the  fact,  that,  with  the  exception  of 
the  German,  none  of  the  western  and  southern  Eu- 
ropean dialects  will  sustain  the  length  of  an  hexam- 
eter line  ;  and,  consequently,  must  fail  in  all  the 
other  modes  of  verse  measured  by  a  standard  so 
delicate  and  variable  as  quantity.  In  English,  sylla- 
bic quantity,  and  even  accents,  are  so  undefined, 
that,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  writer,  both  may 
be  ruled  at  pleasure,  if  he  have  but  an  ear,  at  once 
so  experienced  and  sensitive,  to  modulate  his  ca- 
dences in  such  a  manner  tlmt,  by  the  flow  of  the 
preceding  syllables,  the  reader  shall  be  prepared  to 
fall  inevitably  upon  the  precise  rhythm  which  he  had 
predetermined  for  the  line.  This,  however,  is  so 
rarely  achieved  that,  in  our  anapaestic  or  dautylic 
verse  (except  in  the  most  monotonous  strains),  it  is 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  91 

Bcarcely  possible  for  a  good  reader,  even  when  the 
verse  is  good,  to  run  through  half  a  dozen  couplets 
without  stumbling  half  as  many  times.  All  attempts, 
therefore,  to  frame  poems  with  our  brief,  unfettered 
Saxon  idioms,  on  the  principles  of  those  in  the 
learned  languages,  must  be  hopeless.  Men  of  the 
greatest  skill  have  miscarried  here  ;  and  I  know  not 
that  success  were  desirable,  since  it  could  not  be 
attained,  except  by  enthralling  with  foreign  fetters 
our  free-born  British  speech. 

Not  having  a  modern  example  at  hand, — though 
the  enterprise  has  been  effected  with  as  much  good 
speed  as  our  slippery  tongue  would  allow,  by  Dr. 
Southey, — I  shall  offer  a  few  lines  of  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney's, from  a  pastoral  in  his  Arcadia ;  a  book  once 
celebrated  by  all  the  wits  and  beauties  of  an  age  of 
gallantry,  though  probably  not  read  through  by  six 
of  either  class  during  the  last  half  century  : — 

"Lady,  reserved  by  the  heavens,  to  do   pastors'  compame 

honour, 
Joyning  your  sweete  voice  to  the  rurall  Muse  of  a  desart, 
Here  you  fully  do  finde  this,  strange  operation  of  love, 
How  to  the  woods  Love  Rinnes,  as  well  as  rides  to  the  palace  ; 
Neither  he  beares  reverence  to  a  prince,  nor  pity  to  a  beggar, 
But,  like  a  point  in  the  midst  of  a  circle,  is  still  of  a  nearnesse ; 
All  to  a  lesson  he  draws,  neither  hills  nor  caves  can  avoid 

him." 

These  lines  are  not  amiss  ;  but  who  could  survive 
an  Iliad  of  them  1  One  great  defect  in  our  English 
tongue  (heart  of  oak  as  it  is  in  strength  and  tough- 
ness), is  the  paucity  of  spondees  in  its  vocabulary. 
Without  these,  no  hexameter  can  close  well,  or  be 
well  balanced  in  its  progress.  Under  such  a  disa- 
bility, our  language  becomes  supple  and  languid  in 
ancient  metres,  instead  of  elastic  and  rebounding  to 
its  natural  tone,  after  the  utmost  flexure  or  tension 
which  the  laws  of  such  labours  require. 


92  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

Modern  Metres  and  Forms  of  Verse. 

It  is  not  needful,  nor  would  it  be  expedient,  to 
trouble  the  audience  before  me  with  any  detailed 
account  of  the  different  species  of  verse  in  our  own 
and  other  contemporary  languages.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  that  though  quantity  \s  not  altogether  discarded, 
it  is  comparatively  little  employed  in  the  construc- 
tion of  vernacular  poetry.  When  happily  managed, 
however,  a  slight  infusion  of  it  greatly  enriches  and 
ennobles  some  of  our  measures,  especially  in  the 
hardy  and  intricate  rhythm  of  blank  verse ;  but  it 
requires  fine  taste,  and  an  imperial  command  of  apt 
and  confluent  words,  to  venture  far  beyond  the 
avoidance  of  crude  elisions,  such  as  make  our  beau- 
tiful English  barbarous  to  the  eye  and  horrid  to  the 
ear.  Milton  frequently  imiovates  upon  the  high 
harmonies  of  his  accented  verse  with  the  substitution 
of  quantities ;  sometimes  difficult  at  first  sight  to 
master,  but  generally  admirable  in  effect,  and  height- 
ening, even  when  harshest,  the  majesty  of  his  strains 
— like  a  momentary  crash  of  discord,  thrown  by  the 
skilful  organist,  into  the  full  tide  of  instrumental 
music,  which  gives  intenser  sweetness  to  what  fol- 
lows. Thus,  when  he  represents  Satan  among  his 
summoned  legions, — 

"  Godlike  shapes,  and  fonns 
Excelling  human,  princely  dignities, 
And  powers  that  erst  in  heaven  sat  on  thrones," 

he  thus  depicts  their  leader : — 

"  He,  above  the  rest, 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 
Stood  like  a  tower : — his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  arcliangel  ruin'd,  and  the'  excess 
Of  glory'  obscured." 

Paradise  Lost,  book  1. 

!n  this  brief  clause  there  are  no  less  than  fow 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  93 

Bupernumerary  syllables  in  so  many  successive  lines, 
if  verse  is  to  be  computed  by  the  fingers,  and  not 
by  melodious  pulsations  of  sound,  true  to  time,  and 
touching-  the  ear  within  a  given  space.  This  fine 
image  would,  indeed,  resemble  its  prototype,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  sequel,  and  be  "  shorn  of  its  beams," 
if,  instead  of  "  stood  like  a  tow-er,"  we  were  to  read, 
"  stood  like  a  tow'r ;"  for  "  all  its  original  bright- 
ness," "  all  its  orig'nal  brightness  ;"  but  especially 
if  we  were  to  curtail  the  article,  and  for  "  glory," 
substitute  "  light ;"  saying  for  "  the'  excess  of  glory' 
obscured,"  "  tK*  excess  of  light  obscured ;"  which 
would  be  according  to  mere  numerical  metre. 

Though  a  little  out  of  place,  as  it  crosses  our  way, 
T  cannot  refrain  from  pointing  out  a  most  singular 
prosopopoiea  which  occurs  in  this  passage,  but  which 
is  so  eclipsed  by  the  shaded  splendour  of  the  context 
as,  perhaps,  never  before  to  have  attracted  critical 
notice  ;— 

"  His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  criginal  brightness  !" 

Here  the  very  person  of  the  fallen  angel  is  person- 
ified, as  though  that  were  but  an  accident  of  his 
nature,  not  himself,  and  "  the  intellectual  being" 
were  as  distinct  from  it  as  the  soul  of  man  is  from 
his  body.  This,  indeed,  is  a  necessary  condition  of 
presenting  spirits  in  any  mode  apprehensible  by  the 
senses. 

Another  line  of  Milton's  has  been  quoted  as  full  to 
overflowing  with  quantity : — 

"  O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp." 

Here  thirteen  distinct  syllables  occupy  the  time  and 
place  of  ten  only.  But  the  boldest  and  most  suc- 
cessful sally  of  the  kind,  in  which  he  achieves  a  tri- 
umph for  his  mother  tongue,  and  exalts  it  almost  to 
rank  with  Homer's,  occurs  in  the  menace  of  the 


94  THE  FORM  OF  POETRY. 

spectre  at  hell-gates  to  Satan,  attempting  to  pass 
th.3ni.     Death, 

"  that  other  shape, 
If  shape  it  might  be  called,  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable'  in  member,  joint,  or  limb," 

thus  threatens  the  arch-fiend : — 

"  Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive !  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering, — or,  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart, 
Strange  horror  seize  thee',  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

The  hand  of  a  master  is  felt  through  every  move- 
ment of  this  sentence,  especially  towards  the  close, 
where  it  seems  to  grapple  with  the  throat  of  the 
reader ;  the  hard  staccato  stops,  that  well-nigh  take 
the  breath,  in  attempting  to  pronounce  "  or,  with 
one  stroke  of  this  dart,"  are  followed  by  an  explo- 
sion of  sound  in  the  last  line,  like  a  heavy  dis- 
charge of  artillery,  in  which,  though  a  full  syllable 
is  interpolated  even  at  the  cesural  pause,  it  is  carried 
off  ahnost  without  the  reader  perceiving  the  sur- 
plusage,— 

"  Strange  horror  seize  thee',  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

I  will  not  expatiate. 

But  these  redundancies,  though  allowable  in  he- 
roic, and  commendable  in  dramatic,  are  seldom  to  be 
tolerated  in  lyric  poetry;  so  that,  on  the  whole,  our 
verse  must  be  modulated  by  accent,  not  by  quantity, 
except  in  the  free  and  frequent  use  of  such  words  and 
phrases  as  "  heaven,  power,  spirit,"  and  a  few  others, 
which  are  feeble  when  employed  as  dissyllables,  but 
enrich  the  harmony  when  employed  as  one  ;  that  is, 
when  uttered  distinctly,  but  in  the  time  of  one. 
The  phrase  "  many  a"  is  sanctioned  by  a  similar 
license  : — 

"  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

Gray 


THE    FORM    OF    POKTRY.  95 

Here  "  many  a  flower,"  five  syllables,  absolutely 
stands  in  the  place  of  three;  and  a  clear  tongue 
will  touch  upon  each  so  delicately  that  a  common 
ear  must  feel  the  beauty  of  their  full  expression, 
and  abhor  the  elision  of  a  pretended  supernumerary 
vowel. 

On  the  brevity  of  metrical  lengths  in  modern  lan- 
guages, it  may  be  added,  that  Enghsh  iambic  verse 
will  seldom  bear  drawing  out  into  more  than  ten 
syllables.  Yet  our  elder  poets  composed  long  works 
in  twelve,  and  even  fourteen.  Chapman's  version 
of  the  Iliad  is  in  the  latter  measure  : — 

*'  Achilles'  baneful  wrath,  O  goddess  !  that  imposed 
Infinite  sorrows  on  the  Greeks,  and  many  brave  souls  losed 
From  breasts  heroique  ;  sent  them  far  to  that  invisible  cave 
That  no  light  coniforts,  and  their  limbs  to  dogs  and  vultures 
gave." 

Drayton's  Polyolbion — a  work  once  famous,  though 
now  scarcely  known  except  by  its  uncouth  name — 
is  in  twelves.  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  most  learned 
and  ingenious  poems  in  the  language,  and  unique  in 
literature;  being  a  treasure-house  of  topographic, 
antiquarian,  and  traditional  lore,  which  the  heavy 
versification  alone  was  sufficient  to  sink  into  neglect, 
even  if  public  taste  had  not  changed  since  the  age  of 
garrulity  which  it  was  written  to  instruct  and  enter- 
tain. The  stag-chase  in  the  forest  of  Arden  is  a 
masterpiece  of  its  kind.  These  are  the  opening 
lines : — 

"  Now  when  the  hart  doth  hear 
The  often-bellowing  hounds  to  vent  his  secret  leir, 
He,  rousing,  rusheth  out,  and  through  the  brakes  doth  drive. 
As  though  up  by  the  roots  the  bushes  he  would  rive  ; 
And  through  the  cumbrous  thicks,  as  fearfully  he  makes, 
He,  with  his  branched  head,  the  tender  saplings  shakes, 
That,  sprinkhng  their  moist  pearls,  do  seem  to  weep  : 
When,  after  goes  me  cry,  with  yellings  loud  and  deep 
That  all  the  forest  rhigs,  and  every  neighbouring  place 
And  there  is  not  a  hound  but  fallcth  to  the  chasp.  • 


98  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

Rechating  with  his  horn,*  which  then  the  hunter  cheetH, 

Wliile  still  the  lusty  stag  his  high-palm'd  head  upbears, 
His  body  showing  state,  his  unbent  knees  upright, 
Expressing,  from  all  beasts,  his  courage  in  the  fight." 

Polyolbion,  song  xiii. 

The  line  of  fourteen  syllables  has  long^  been  aban- 
doned ;  but  out  of  it  sprang  the  easiest  of  all  our 
lyric  staves — the  "  common  measure"  as  it  is  called, 
alternately  of  eight  and  six  syllables,  the  division 
occurring  where  the  cesura  almost  necessarily  fell 
m  the  old  form.  The  line  of  tv/elves  is  also  become 
obsolete,  except  as  occasionally  interpolated  with 
the  heroic  standard  of  ten,  or  employed  in  stanzas 
of  unequal  numbers.  In  the  former  case  it  was  called 
the  "  Alexandrine,"  and  was  introduced  almost  ex- 
clusively in  triplets  at  the  close  of  long  periods. 
Though  much  used  by  Dryden,  few  of  his  successors 
have  deemed  the  precedent  valid  ;  indeed,  it  is  plain 
that  he  himself  often  used  it  from  slovenliness,  to 
catch  the  overflowings  of  thought,  when  he  was  in 
too  great  haste  to  train  it  through  those  regular 
channels  which  no  versifier  had  ever  greater  facility 
to  command  than  Dryden,  when  he  was  not  writing 
against  time  to  his  own  loss, — for  Time,  like  the 
tortoise  in  the  race  with  the  hare,  has  overtaken  the 
fieet-footed  bard,  and  avenged  his  own  wrongs  by 
obliterating  almost  all  tne  hurried  footsteps  of  his 
competitor. 

The  Spenserian  Stanza  and  the  Sennet. 

The  twelve-syllable  line,  however,  has  lately  risen 
again  to  distinction  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  which 
Thomson,  in  his  Castle  of  Indolence — certainly  not 
in  one  of  his  fits  of  indolence — had  ventured  to  re- 
vive. This,  though  complex  and  difficult  in  construc- 
tion, has  become  a  favourite  one  for  long  narrative, 
since  the  resurrection  of  genuine  poetry,  after  its 

*  One  of  the  moas^nres  in  vvindinf^  ihe  horn  in  thp  chase. 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  97 

long  intermediate  state  of  suspended  animation  (with 
a  few  brief  waking  intervals)  between  the  death  of 
Pope  and  the  appearance  of  Cowper.  The  circum- 
stance is  the  more  remarkable,  because  Spenser 
himself — great,  admirable,  and  unrivalled  as  he  is  in 
some  respects — had  long  ceased  to  be  popular.  The 
stanza  itself  is  a  very  curious  knot,  which  requires 
the  nicest  skill  to  tie  gracefully.  In  form,  it  is  as 
compact  as  the  Italian  sonnet,  with  this  difference, — 
that  the  stanza  is  unique,  whereas  the  sonnet  is 
double.  The  latter  consists  of  two  quartrains  and 
two  triplets  ;  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole  would 
be  broken,  not  only  by  the  addition  or  retrenchment 
of  a  line,  but  even  by  a  less  rigid  arrangement  of 
rhymes  and  clauses  in  the  fourteen  lines  of  which  it 
is  composed.  The  Spenserian  stanza  is  likewise  so 
finely  proportioned,  and  so  artfully  implicated,  that 
no  single  rhyme  can  be  withdrawn  or  appended,  nor 
its  station  varied,  without  dissolving  the  musical 
effect  of  the  whole.  The  sonnet  is  a  poetical  air  in 
two  parts,  the  stanza  is  a  strain  in  one  ;  each  per- 
fect in  its  kind,  but  only  good  when  very  good. 

The  Spenserian  stanza,  after  all  that  has  been  done 
to  support  its  credit,  and  though  it  is  the  richest  and 
most  sonorous,  perhaps,  that  could  be  invented,  be- 
comes occasionally  wearisome  both  to  the  poet  and 
the  reader,  even  when  in  the  hands  of  a  master. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  the  inexperienced  adventurer 
often  sinks  under  this  cumbrous  harness,  or  that  his 
readers  lose  half  of  the  poetry  of  a  paragraph  in 
hunting  after  the  sense,  weakened,  obscured,  and 
embarrassed,  as  it  may  be,  by  inverted  construction, 
uncouth  phraseology,  and  inadequate  expression, 
adopted  to  compress  or  expand  the  lines,  in  order  to 
meet  the  rhymes  due  at  the  prescribed  points.  In  a 
language  so  poor  in  inflections  as  our  own,  it  is  not 
prudent  to  introduce  more  than  three  rhymes  at  the 
most  in  the  same  verse,  and  these  should  be  placed 
at  moderate  intervals.     In  the  stanza  before  us  thera 


98  THE    rORfll    OF    POETRY. 

are  four  similar  ones  between  the  second  and  the 
seventh  lines,  interwoven  with  tivo  of  different  kinds, 
of  which  one  echoes  to  the  ending  of  the  first  line, 
and  the  other  must  be  in  consonance  with  those  of 
the  last  couplet.  It  follows,  that  from  the  number 
and  remoteness  of  these  corresponding  terminations, 
the  meaning  and  the  verbiage  can  seldom  keep  pace 
with  each  other  ;  but,  for  the  sake  of  jingling  at  the 
proper  stages,  they  must  ride  and  tie  alternately  (as 
two  countrymen  with  but  one  horse  between  them 
sometimes  do)  to  the  end  of  the  journey.  I  decline 
to  give  a  specimen,  because  it  would  take  up  too 
much  time  to  analyze ;  otherwise  I  could  show  the 
sense  absolutely  halting  on  foot  in  the  first  line,  while 
the  diction  rides  post  to  the  end  of  the  third  to  catch 
a  rhyme ;  then  the  sense  takes  its  turn,  and,  mount- 
ing at  the  commencement  of  the  fourth  line,  proceeds 
full  gallop  (though  we  nearly  lose  sight  of  it  in  the 
dust  and  cloud  of  words)  to  the  final  syllable  of  the 
concluding  line. 

This  fault,  rather  of  the  measure  than  of  the  min- 
strel, prevails  more  or  less  through  the  most  cele- 
brated compositions  of  late  authors  in  the  Spenserian 
stanza, — a  disadvantage  greatly  to  their  own  preju- 
dice, as  well  as  productive  of  much  perplexity  to 
their  readers.  The  highest  pleasure  communicated 
by  poetry  is  experienced  from  the  first  impression  of 
its  words,  images,  and  sentiments,  clearly  and  in- 
stantaneously understood.  If  the  novelty  of  the 
thought  be  past  before  the  reader  can  comprehend 
the  form  of  words  in  which  it  appears,  though  both 
the  novelty  and  the  beauty  of  the  passage  may  strike 
him,  they  will  not  strike  him  at  once,  but  successively, 
— the  novelty  first,  the  beauty  afterward ;  nor  will 
either,  singly,  be  felt  so  forcibly  as  each,  distinctly, 
would  have  been  in  combination  with  the  other- 
This  will  hold  true  with  regard  to  all  works  of  litera- 
ture in  the  vernacular  tongue.  The  slow-ness  with 
which  we  enter  into  the  j)eculiar  meaning  of  words, 


THE    FORM    OF    POETRY.  99 

and  the  expected  gradations  by  which  the  elegances 
of  thought  and  diction  are  disclosed  to  us  in  a  foreign 
idiom,  will  not  invalidate  the  observation ;  for  the 
pleasure  derived  from  this  kind  of  reading  is  differ- 
ent in  nature  as  well  as  in  degree  from  the  former. 
The  perusal  of  a  poem  in  a  strange  tongue  is  an 
effort  of  spontaneous  study — a  strong  and  healthful 
exercise  of  mind,  memory,  and  reflection  ;  whereas 
a  poem  in  our  own  ought  to  be  a  solace  from  severer 
tasks,  and  almost  a  passive  recreation  of  the  heart 
or  the  fancy. 

It  is  due  to  Spenser  to  give  the  model  of  this 
exquisite  but  intricate  stanza  from  his  own  great 
work,  and  I  take  the  first  that  occurs  in  the  "  Faerie 
Queene." 

"  Lo  I,  the  man  whose  muse  whilome  did  maske, 
As  time  her  taught,  in  lowly  shepheards'  weeds, 
Are  now  enforst,  a  farre  unfitter  taske, 

For  trumpets  sterne  to  change  mine  oaten  reeds. 
And  sing  of  knights'  and  ladies'  gentle  deeds ; 
Whose  praises,  having  slept  in  silence  long, 
Me,  all-too-mean,  the  sacred  muse  areeds 
To  blazon  broade  among  her  learned  throng ; 
Fierce  wars  and  faithful  loves  shall  moralize  my  song." 
Faerie  Queene,  book  i.  canto  i. 

A  few  words  more  concerning  the  sonnet.  There 
is  not  a  popular  one  in  the  English  language  :  there 
are  hundreds  in  the  Italian.  Whence  comes  this  dis- 
parity I  Many  of  the  best  sonnets  of  our  greatest 
authors — Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Milton,  Gray,  Cow- 
per^  and  Wordsworth — are  exceedingly  unequal  in 
their  texture,  obscure  in  their  verbiage,  and  lumber- 
ing in  the  motion  of  their  verse.  The  Italian  ones 
remarkably  contrast  with  these  ;  being  distinguished, 
even  above  other  poetic  compositions,  in  that  most 
delicate,  voluble,  and  melodious  tongue,  by  exquisite 
finish  in  respect  to  diction,  clear  development  of  the 
one  fine  thought  which  they  enclose,  and  the  musical 
succession  of  cadences  carried  through  to  the  last 


100  THE    FORM    OF    POETRY. 

syllable  of  the  fourteen  lines, — lines  so  admirably 
arranged  that  the  place  of  each  in  the  tune  (if  we 
may  so  speak)  can  be  almost  known  by  the  ear  as 
well  as  by  the  correspondence  of  rhyme  and  con- 
nexion of  sentiment.  The  sonnet,  therefore,  has 
been  unworthily  depreciated  in  England,  because  it 
has  been  imperfectly  exhibited  by  English  writers ; 
partly  from  the  difficulty  of  furnishing  relays  of 
rhyme  to  meet  at  the  appointed  stations,  and  partly 
from  the  Procrustean  model,  on  exact  attention  to 
which  the  perfection  of  the  sonnet  depends. 

If  it  be  asked,  Why  should  a  sonnet  be  confined  to 
fourteen  lines  rather  than  any  other  number  ]  I  know 
not  that  the  question  can  be  better  answered  than 
by  asking  another, — Why  should  the  height  of  a 
Corinthian  column  be  ten  diameters  1  The  cestus 
of  Venus  must  be  of  some  particular  length,  both  to 
fit  and  to  adorn  the  person  of  the  goddess  :  a  hand- 
breadth  taken  away  would  have  left  it  scanty,  and  a 
hand-breadth  superadded  would  have  made  it  redun- 
dant. The  quota  of  lines,  and  the  arrangement  of 
rhymes  and  pauses,  already  established  in  the  regular 
sonnet,  have  been  deemed,  after  the  experience  of 
five  centuries,  incapable  of  improvement  by  exten- 
sion or  reduction ;  while  the  form  itself  has  been 
proved  to  be  the  most  convenient  and  graceful  that 
ever  was  invented  for  disclosing,  embellishing,  and 
encompassing  the  noblest  or  the  loveliest,  the  gayest 
or  the  gravest  idea,  that  genius,  in  its  happiest  mo- 
ments of  rapture  or  of  melancholy,  could  inspire.  The 
employment  of  this  form  by  the  finest  Italian  poets, 
for  expressing,  with  pathos  and  power  irresistible, 
their  selectest  and  purest  conceptions,  is  an  argument 
of  fact  against  all  speculative  objections,  in  favour 
of  the  intrinsic  excellence  and  unparalleled  perfection 
of  the  sonnet. 

Our  contemporary  Mr.  Wordsworth  (whatever 
may  have  been  done  before  him)  has  redeemed  the 
Knglish  language  from  the  opprobrium  of  not  admit- 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  iOl 

ting  the  legitimate  sonnet  in  its-S£verest,  as  veU  as 
its  most  elegant,  const^uc^ioh. . .  The  foJlc'A^ing, 
though  according  to  the  strictest  precedents,  and 
therefore  the  least  rigreei'bl'^  to  iinac-cuj5Coired  ears, 
is  full  of  deep  harmony,  sf'-ang^syntirceUc,  ,ihu  chr.s- 
tised,  yet  impassioned,  feeling.  The  Tyrolese,  amid 
their  Alpine  fastnesses,  are  represented  as  returning 
this  lofty  answer  to  the  insulting  demand  of  uncon- 
ditional surrender  to  French  invaders.  If  their  own 
mountains  had  spoken,  they  could  not  have  replied 
more  majestically : — 

"  The  land  we,  from  our  fathers,  had  in  trust, 
And  to  our  children  will  transmit,  or  die  ; 
Thisis  our  maxim,  this  our  piety  ; 
And  God  and  Nature  say  thai  it  is  just : 
That  which  we  would  perform  in  arms  we  mi^t ! 
We  read  the  dictate  in  the  infant's  eye, 
In  the  wife's  smile ;  and  in  the  placid  sky, 
And  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 
Of  them  that  were  before  us.     Sing  aloud 
OLD  SONGS— the  precious  music  of  the  heart  \ 
Give,  herds  and  flocks,  your  voices  to  the  wind, 
While  \\e  go  forth,  a  self-devoted  crowd, 
With  weapons  in  the  fearless  hand,  to'  assert 
Our  virtiie,  and  to  vincUcate  mankind." 


LECTURE  IV. 

THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

Alliterative  English  Verse. 


English  verse  may  be  constructed  according  to 
three  forms — alliterative,  with  rhyme,  or  simply 
metrical  (blank,  as  it  is  called). 

"  Pierce  Plowman's  Vision,"  by  William  Lang- 
lande,  who  lived  in  the  reigns  of  Edward  III.  and 


102  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

Richfi-rdlL,  and  published  his  poem  about  the  year 
1350,' is  the  largs3st's^^cimen  of  alliterative  poetry 
bequeathed  to  us  from  remote  times.     This  kind  of 
vSrsificanon-  \s  loiiiided  i^'pon  Toelandic  and  Anglo- 
Saxen  nicdel^s  and*  neither' depends  lor  its  effect 
upon  the  quantity  of  the  syllables,  their  number, 
their  particular  accent,  nor  yet  their  rhyming  ter- 
minations, but  consists  in  an  artful  repetition  of  the 
same  sounds,  at  least  three  times  in  each  distich. 
The  lines,  likewise,  have  a  certain  slipshod  cadence, 
with  a  marked  cesura  about  the  middle  of  each  ; 
and,  on  the  whole,  they  read  much  more  like  Greek 
or  Roman  measures  than  any  others  in  our  language. 
A  brief  sample  will  be  found  not  altogether  unagree- 
able to  modern  ears.     Much  of  Chaucer,  on  account 
of  his  lam 
following  :- 
"  Thus,  robfed  in  russet,  I  roamed  about 
All  a  summer-season,  to  seeks  Do-wel, 
And  frejTied*  full  oft,  of  folke  that  I  mette. 
If  any  wight  wist  where  Do-ivel  was  at  inne  ;t 
And  what  man  he  might  be,  of  many  I  asked ; 
Was  never  wight,  as  I  went,  that  me  wyshj  could 
Wliere  this  laddie  lenged(5)  lesse  or  more, 
Till  it  befel  on  a  Fryday  two  ftyers  I  mette, 
Maisters  of  theminours,  men  of  greate  wytte  ; 

I  halsed  hem  hendlye,!,  as  I  had  lerned. 

And  prayed  hem  for  charitie,  or  they  passed  furthur. 

If  they  knewe  any  courte  or  countr>'e  as  they  went 

Where  that  Do-wel  dwelleth,  do  me  to  wytte,ir 

For  they  be  men  on  this  mould  that  most  wide  walke. 

And  knowe  countries  and  courtes,  and  many  kinne's  places, 

Both  princes  pallaces  and  poore  mennes  cotes, 

And  Do-wel  and  Do-evil,  where  they  dwel  both. 

— '  Amongst  us,''  quoth  the  minours,  *  that  man  is  dwellmge, 
And  ever  hath,  as  I  hope,  and  ever  shall  hereafter.' 

— '  Contra,''  quod  I,  as  a  clarke  and  cumsed  to  disputen, 
And  said  him  sot  he  ley,  '  Septies  indie  cadit  Justus,' 

Seven  sythes,'^*  said  the  Boke,  '  syimeth  the  rightful!, 
And  who  so  sj-ntieth,  I  say,  doetli  evil,  as  men  thinketh, 
And  Do-wel  and  Do-cvil  may  not  dwell  together  ; 

♦  Inquired.  t  Dwelt.  t  Tell,  $  Lived. 

II  Saluted  them  kindly.  TT  To  inform  me.  **  Times. 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  103 

Ergo,  he  is  not  alway  among  you  frj-ers, 

He  is  other  whyle  elsewhere,  to  wyshen  the  people. 

*  i  shall  say  thee,  my  sonne,'  said  the  fryer  than, 
'How  seven  sythes  the  sadde*  man  on  a  day  synneth, 
By  a  forvisne,'t  quod  the  fryer,  '  I  shall  the  iaire  shewe 
— Let  bryng  a  man  in  a  bottej  amid  the  brode  water ; 
The  winde  and  the  water  the  botte  wagging,(5 
Make  a  man  many  a  time  to  fall  and  to  stande ; 
For,  stande  he  never  so  stiffe,  he  stumbleth  if  he  move  ; 
And  yet  he  is  safe  and  sounde,  and  so  him  behoveth ; 
For  if  he  arise  the  rather,  and  raght  to  the  steer, 
The  winde  would  with  the  water  the  botte  overthrovi^, 
And  then  were  his  life  lost  through  latches  of  liimself."|| 

Our  elder  poets  often  availed  themselves  of  "  apt 
alliteration's  artful  aid"  (as  Churchill  significantly 
calls  it),  in  their  minor  pieces  : — 

"  The  life  is  long  that  lothsomely  doth  last, 

The  dolefull  dayes  draw  slowly  to  their  date  ; 
The  present  panges  and  painfull  plagues  forepast, 
Yielde  griefe  aye  greene  to  stablish  this  estate." 

Anonynums. 

Shakspeare  has  many  fine-touches  of  this  poetical 
seasoning,  which,  indeed,  is  seldom  otherwise  than 
pleasing,  when  unobtrusively  thrown  in.  If  the 
vowel  i  be  pronounced  in  the  substantive  "  wind'''  as 
it  is  in  the  verb  "  to  ivind,^^  the  effect  of  the  double 
alliteration  in  the  following  line  wtil  be  exceedingly 
impressive : — 

"  The  churlish  chiding  of  the  wintry  wind." 

To  show  how  subtle  the  charm  of  exquisite  verse 
may  be,  let  "  wind"  be  pronounced  with  the  usual 
flat  i,  and  the  "  wintry  wind"  will  be  hardly  endu- 
rable. 

Later  poets,  even  the  most  eminent,  have  not 
disdained  to  employ  this  petty  artifice.  Gray,  one 
of  the  most  fastidious  of  the  tribe,  was  even  fond 
of  it. 

*  Sober.  t  A  simile  t  A  boat 

$  Rocking  the  boat  '1!  By  his  own  careleiisncss 


104  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

"  Rmn  seize  thee  ruthless  king ! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ; 
Though  fann'd  by  conquest's  crimson  wing. 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state." 

Alliteration,  open  or  occult,  may  be  traced  through 
every  turn  of  this  brief  paragraph. 

Young,  in  his  most  sombre  lucubrations  and  epi- 
grammatic arguments,  plays  with  alliteratives  in  his 
own  quaint  way  : — 

"  Fondness  for  fame  is  avarice  of  air !" 


Rhymed  Verse. 

Our  national  verse  may  be  written  either  with 
rhyme  or  without  it.  By  universal  usage,  however, 
rhyme  seems  to  be  almost  indispensable  in  lesser 
metres,  to  distinguish  the  lines  in  recitation,  and 
give  a  certain  finish  to  the  cadence  of  each ;  as 
though  the  strain  were  set  to  some  kind  of  music, 
which  played  during  the  delivery,  but  called  not  off 
attention  from  the  subject,  the  thoughts,  nor  the  lan- 
guage ;  as  conversation  may  be  carried  on  in  a  draw- 
ing-room, while  low,  sweet,  undisturbing  instru- 
mental harmony  in  the  vestibule,  or  under  the  win- 
dow, is  heard,  though  not  listened  to,  all  the  time. 
In  fact,  rhyme  is  a  running  bass  accompaniment  that 
wonderfully  aids  the  spirit  and  melody  of  the  song, 
throughout  which,  without  being  distinctly  regarded, 
it  is,  nevertheless,  so  interfused,  that  if  it  be  sus- 
pended for  a  single  note  the  spell  is  broken;  and 
treble,  alt,  tenor, — soaring,  sinking,  swelling,  or  pass- 
ing by  the  most  subtle  transitions  through  the  whole 
diapason  of  their  range, — seem  to  want  the  sustain- 
ing power  which  kept  them  afloat  and  accordant. 
But  rhyme  ought  ever  to  be  subdued,  and  made  sub- 
sidiary to  the  richer  and  more  varied  rhythm  of  the 
lines  :  for  the  instant  it  becomes  conspicuous  by  its 
singularity  it  attracts  attention  from  the  theme  to 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  105 

the  mechanism  of  the  verse  ;  and  offering  no  more 
than  a  tinkhng,  momentary  sound  to  the  ear,  it  either 
displeases  at  once  ;.'s  an  interruption,  or  soon  be- 
comes offensive  because  it  is  frivolous.  Rhymes 
should  be  employed  as  expletives, — graceful  only 
when  they  are  not  reflected  upon ;  or,  rather,  as  an 
element  of  composition,  resembling  air,  light,  health, 
and  other  of  the  higher  and  more  essential  requisites 
of  happy  existence,  which  are  breathed,  seen,  enjoyed, 
without  disturbing  the  common  tenor  of  our  feel- 
ings. When  thus  adapted,  rhyme  becomes  an  ingre- 
dient so  equally  blended  with  the  other  constituent 
parts  of  good  verse  as  to  do  its  office  not  less  quietly, 
nor  less  effectively,  in  upholding  the  general  har- 
mony, than  the  articles  of  nouns,  auxiliaries  of  verbs, 
and  other  small  words,  which  occur  over  and  over, 
again  and  again,  in  all  kinds  of  discourse,  as  well  as 
literary  composition,  and  not  less  in  prose  than  in 
poetry.  These  particles,  though  noticed  by  nobody, 
unless  bunglingly  brought  in,  are  nevertheless  felt 
by  all  to  be  absolutely  necessary  for  the  purpose  of 
connecting,  adjusting,  and  filling  up  the  verbal  im- 
port of  every  sentence. 

Rhyme  may  be  a  snare  to   idle  versifiers,  with 
whom 

"  One  line  for  sense,  and  one  for  rhyme, 
Are  quite  sufficient  at  ope  time." 

These  it  may  betray  into  verbosity';  while 

"  The  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write  with  ease" 

may  be  tempted,  by  its  "  fatal  facility,"  to  copy  the 
practice  of  Elkanah  Settle, 

"  Wlio  fagoted  his  notions  as  they  fell, 
And  if  they  rhymed  and  rattled,  all  was  well." 

Dryden. 

But  the  genuine  poet,  who  knows  how  "  to  build 
the  lofty  rhyme,'"'  in  the  higher  as  well' as  the  vulgar 
sense  of  the  word, — he,  in  the  search  after  consonant 
I 


106  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

endings,  will  start  many  a  noble  image  and  idea  while 
he  IS  only  pursuing  a  sound.  So  far  from  being 
seduced  to  attenuate  his  matter  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  recurring  points,  where  the  rhymes  must 
strike  in  like  oars  in  rowing,  which  while  they 
featlier  the  surge,  and  make  it  flash  in  the  sun,  impel 
the  boat  onward,  and  accompany  the  song  of  the 
seamen, — the  genuine  poet,  of  whom  we  speak,— 
like  Pope,  the  greatest  master  of  rhyme  in  our  own, 
or,  perhaps,  in  any  language,  because  in  none  other 
is  it  so  difficult,  shy,  and  perverse,* — will  delibe- 
rately prefer  it,  for  the  remarkable  reason  which  he 
states  in  the  introduction  to  his  "  Essay  on  Man," 
because  of  its  poicer  of  compression  !     Hear  him  : — 

"  If  I  could  flatter  myself  that  this  Essay  has  any 
merit,  it  is  in  steering  between  the  extremes  of  doc- 
trines seemingly  opposite ;  in  passing  over  terms 
utterly  unintelligible,  and  in  forming  a  temperate  yet 
not  inconsistent,  and  a  short  yet  not  imperfect,  sys- 
tem of  ethics.  This  I  might  have  done  in  prose  ;  but 
I  chose  verse,  and  even  rhyme,  for  two  reasons. 
The  one  will  appear  obvious  ;  that  principles,  max- 
ims, or  precepts,  so  written,  both  strike  the  reader 
more  strongly  at  first,  and  are  more  easily  retained 
by  him  afterward.  The  other  may  seem  odd,  but  it 
is  true  ;  I  found  that  I  could  express  them  more  shortly 
this  way  than  in  prose  itself;  and  nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  much  of  the  force  as  well  as  grace 
of  arguments  or  instructions  depends  on  their  con- 
ciseness." 

To  this  may  be  added,  that  if  poets  understood  the 
secret  of  compression  thus  ingeniously  expounded, 
and  if  they  practised  it  after  the  example  of  their 
preceptor, — poetry,   instead  of   being  the   dullest, 

*  In  proof  of  this  maybe  mentioned  the  simple  circumstance  of /J^urai 
TO'W^is  ending  in  liie  consonant  .<^,  while  in  7;eri5  the  usual  termination 
of  the  third  person  singular,  present  t^jnse  (that  which  of  all  others  oc- 
curs the  ofienest),  is  the  same.  This  is  a  source  of  perpetual  sorrow 
and  plague  to  metre-mongers,  and  probably  curtails  the  available  rhymes 
in  the  English  tongue  one-fourth  of  what  they  might  be,  were  the  unman* 
ageable  «  equally  »he  termination  of  either  singular  or  plural  nouns  and 
verbs. 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  107 

heaviest,  and  least  attractive  species  of  literature  to 
the  o^reat  mass  of  readers,  which  1  do  not  hesitate 
to  acknowledge  tiiat  it  is,  would  be,  at  least,  as 
generally  acceptable  as  imaginative  and  intellectual 
prose.  It  is  not.  "  Do  you  like  poetry  1"  said  the 
Frenchman  to  his  friend.  "O  yes!"  replied  the 
other,  "  next  to  prose  !"  This  is  the  real  sentiment 
of  many  a  reader   of  feeble,  fanciful,  fashionable 

rse, — ay,  and  of  verse  of  the  first  order, — who  has 
neither  courage  nor  ingenuousness  to  avow  his  in- 
difference ;  indeed,  who  will  hardly  acknowledge  it 
to  hifnself,  though  he  has  shrewd  misgivings,  which 
he  represses,  because  they  make  him  suspect  that 
he  must  be  miserably  deficient  in  taste.  The  rea- 
son is  plain ;  and  even  good  poets  have  too  often  to 
thank  themselves  for  the  failure  of  their  most 
elaborate  efforts,  because  they  will  not  write  natu- 
rally, but  rather  choose  to  disguise  common  sense 
with  oracular  ambiguity,  and  trick  out  common- 
place'in  the  foppery  of  euphuism.  It  is  impossible 
to  please  people  by  convincing  them  that  Vaey  oughX 
to  be  pleased  :  you  must  make  tliem,  that  they  can- 
not help  being  so.  How  to  do  that  I  pretend  not  to 
teach. 

Let  us  try  a  paragraph  from  the  "  Essay  on  Man,' 
by  the  poet's  own  gauge, — elegant  compression : — 

"  Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine  ? 
Earth  for  whose  use  ? — Pride  answers,  'Tis  for  mine , 
For  me  kind  nature  wakes  her  genial  power, 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  every  flower; 
Annual  for  me  the  grape,  the  rose  renew 
The  juice  nectareous,  and  the  balmy  dew  ; 
For  me  the  mine  a  thousand  tre£.sures  brings, 
For  me  health  gushes  from  a  thoui^and  springs  ; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise, 
My  footstool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies." 

This  hrilliant  clause  shows  the  fine  tact  and  mas- 
terly management  of  the  ten-syllable  couplet,  pi  cu- 
liar"  to  Pope,  who  is  at  once  the  mos'  affluen.  in 
resources,  and  yet  the  most  compact  a.nd  energetic 


108  TlIK    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

in  the  employment  of  them,  of  all  writers  in  rhyme 
(v\ilhout  any  exception)  in  our  language.  Here  all 
the  great  features  of  the  visible  universe,  the  boun- 
ties of  Divine  Providence,  and  the  general  business 
of  humnn  life,  are  presented  in  the  smallest  possible 
compass  consistent  with  distinct  and  harmonious 
arrangemeiit :  sun.  moon,  and  stars;  earth,  ocean, 
air;  flowers,  fruit,  harvest,  and  vintage;  wealth, 
luxury,  commerce;  and,  the  "end"  of  all, — the 
gratification  of  the  rational  creature  !  It  is  remark- 
able, that  throughout  this  melodious  flow  of  never- 
tiring  numbers,  the  cesural  pauses  float  between  the 
fourth  and  fifth,  and  the  fifth  and  sixth  syllables. 
This,  probably,  was  accidental,  the  poet  being  ruled 
solely  by  the  infallible  test  of  his  ear,  which  most 
exactly  suited  the  cadence  and  consonance  of  the 
verse  to  the  subject.  It  has  been  suggested,  that  it 
would  improve  the  passage  morally^  if  these  lovely 
lines,  and  lovelier  sentiments,  instead  of  being 
uttered  by  Pride,  in  supercilious  vaunting,  had  been 
put  into  the  mouth  of  n»an  himself,  as  the  grateful 
beneficiary  of  his  Maker.  It  is  with  the  diction,  not 
the  morality,  of  this  brief  extract  from  a  long  and 
implicated  argument  that  we  have  to  deal  at  present ; 
and  1  state  this  "  new  reading"  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  show  on  what  nice  and  subtle  adaptation  of 
sound  to  sound,  not  less  than  of  sense  to  sense,  de- 
pends the  perfection  of  verse  to  the  ear,  through 
which  it  must  (however  we  may  reason  against  it) 
afl'ect  the  mind.  Let  the  amendment  be  put,  and  I 
am  sure  that  it  will  be  negatived  without  a  division. 

"  Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine  ? 
Earth  for  whose  use  .' — Man  answers,  'Tis  for  mine." 

Is  not  the  sweet  accordance  of  the  whole  clause 
marred  by  the  jangle  of  "  Man  ansivers,''^  instead  of 
the  sharp,  clear  phrase,  "Pride  answers,"  &c. 

"  Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine? 
Earlh  for  wlu)se  use  /— PnUe  auswers,  'Tis  for  niiuc" 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  109 


Blank  Verse. 

Blank  verse  is  principally  confined  to  the  drnma, 
and  compositions  in  our  five  feet  measure  of  ten 
syllables ;  nor  is  there  any  probability  that  it  will 
ever  much  transorress  those  bounds  ;  a  circumstance 
which  seems  to  establish  rhyme  as  a  vital  principle 
in  minor  pieces, — son^s,  ballads,  odes,  and  octo- 
syllabic effusions.  There  is,  indeed,  one  splendid 
and  victorious  exception  to  the  unmanag-eabjeness  of 
blank  verse  in  metres  of  every  kind,  nnd  this  too  in 
an  epic  poem.  Concerning  "Tlialaba,"' — the  "  wild 
and  wondrous  tale,"  as  the  admirable  author,  Dr. 
Southey,  himself  styles  it,— whatever  be  thou2:ht 
of  the  eccentricities  of  the  plot,  or  the  moral  to  be 
deduced  from  fictions  the  most  preternatural,  the 
success  of  the  experiment  of  framing  that  prodigy 
of  song-  in  numbers  of  all  lengths  and  cadences, 
without  rhyme,  cannot  be  doubted  by  those  whose 
ears  and  hearts  are  tuned  alike  to  all  the  varieties 
of  rhythm  of  which  our  language  is  capable,  as- 
sociated with  the  most  gorgeous  imaginations  that 
modern  poetry  has  conjured  up  and  converted  into 
realities. 

For  myself,  T  am  free  to  acknowledge,  that  the 
efiTect  produced  on  my  mind  by  the  perusal  resem- 
bled the  dreanis  of  the  Opium-eater,  especially  that 
magnificent  one  which  "commenced  with  a  nuisic 
of  preparation  and  awakening  suspense  ;  a  music 
like  that  of  the  coronation  anthem,  and  which,  like 
that,  gave  the  feeling  of  a  vast  march — of  infinite 
cavalcades  filing  off;  and  the  tread  of  innumerable 
armies.  The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day, 
— a  day  of  crisis  and  final  hope  for  human  nature, 
then  suflfering  some  mysterious  eclipse,  and  labour- 
ing in  some  dread  extremity.  Somewhere,  I  knew 
not  where ;  somehow,  I  knew  not  how ;  by  some 
beings,  I  knew  not  whom  ;  a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony 


110  TIIK    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

was  conducting,  was  evolving-  like  a  great  drama, 
or  piece  of  music;  with  which  my  synipath)^  was 
the  more  insupportable  from  my  confusion  as  to  its 
place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  possible  issue. 
I,  as  usual  in  dreams,  where  of  necessity  we  make 
ourselves  central  to  every  movement,  had  the  power, 
and  yet  had  not  the  power,  to  decide  it.  1  had  the 
power,  if  I  could  raise  myself,  to  will  it;  and  yet 
had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of  twenty  At- 
lantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of  inex- 
piable guilt. 

"  '  Deeper  than  plummet  ever  sounded,'  I  lay  in 
active.  Some  greater  interest  was  at  stake ;  some 
mighter  cause  than  ever  yet  the  sword  had  pleaded, 
or  trumpet  had  proclaimed.  Then  came  sudden 
alarms,  and  hurryings  to  and  fro;  trepidations  of 
innumerable  fugitives ;  I  knew  not  whether  from 
the  good  cause  or  the  bad  ;  darkness  and  lights ; 
tempest  and  human  faces ;  and,  at  last,  ivith  the 
sense  that  all  icas  lost,  female  forms,  and  the  features 
that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me. — and  hut  a 
moment  allowed, — and  clasped  hands,  and  heart- 
breaking partings,  and  then  everlasting  farewells ! 
and  with  a  sigh,  such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed 
when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the  abhorred 
name  o{ Death, — the  sound  was-reverberated — ever- 
lasting farewells  ! — and  again,  and  yet  again,  rever- 
berated— everlasting  farewells!  And  I  awoke  in 
struggles,  and  cried  aloud,  'I  will  sleep  no  more!'" 

This  dream  has  transported  me  too  far : — I  return. 
Such  music,  such  mystery,  such  strife,  confusion, 
agony,  despair,  with  splendours  and  glooms,  and 
ulternations  of  rapture  and  horror,  the  tale  of  "  Tha- 
laba  the  Destroyer,"  with  its  marvellous  rhythm 
and  oriental  pageantry,  produces  on  the  mind  of  the 
entranced,  delighted,  yet  atllicted  reader, — so,  at 
least,  it  affected  me.  \  have  said  that  the  experi- 
ment was  victorious,  but  the  author  himself  has  not 
ventured  to  repeat  it;  like  a  wise  man  (which  poets 
seldom  are,  especially  successful  ones),  contenting 


THK    DICTION    OF     I'OKTUY.  I  1  I 

himself  with  the  ,c:lory  of  having-  performed  an  un- 
precedented feat,  and  which  may  very  well  remain 
■dn  unrivalled  one.  He  was  probably  aware  that  he 
sould  not  excel  it  in  a  second  attempt,  and  unless 
he  did  that  (with  the  usual  disheartening  judgment 
of  the  multitude  on  like  occasions),  he  would  have 
been  deemed  to  have  fallen  short  of  it,  merely  be- 
cause the  novelty  being  gone  by,  in  which  much  of 
the  pleasure  of  surprise  at  the  performance  necessa- 
rily consisted,  it  would  only  appear  like  an  ordinary 
R.chievement. 

In  smaller  poems,  blank  verse  has  been  rarely 
tried,  except  in  numerous  and  nameless  imitations 
of  an  indifferent  prototype  by  Collins, — a  poet  who 
had,  indeed,  a  curious  ear,  as  well  as  an  exquisite 
taste  in  versification ;  but  both  were  of  so  peculiar 
a  kind  that  neither  the  music  of  his  numbers,  nor 
the  beauty,  delicacy,  and  almost  unearthly  character 
of  his  imagery  are  always  agreeable.  The  very 
structure  of  the  stanza,  in  his  "  Ode  to  Evening,"  is 
so  mechanical  to  the  eye, — two  long  lines  followed 
by  two  short  ones, — that  a  presentiment  (hke  an 
instinctive  judgment  in  physiognomy)  instantly  oc- 
curs, that  both  thought  and  language  must  be  fettered 
in  a  shape  so  mathematical, — wanting  even  the  hie- 
roglyphic recommendation  of  the  metrical  hatchets, 
wings,  altars,  and  other  exploded  puerilities  of  the 
later  Greek  epigrammatists  and  the  elder  English 
rhymers.  Collins's  Ode  itself  is  a  precious  speci 
men  of  mosaic  vv^ork,  in  v/hich  the  pictures  are  set 
with  painful  and  consummate  skill,  but  have  a  hard 
and  cold  effect,  beyond  the  usual  enamel  of  his  style. 

But  Milton,  the  mighty  Milton,  has  pronounced 
against  rhyme,  and  in  favour  of  blank  verse,  in  the 
preamble  to  "  Paradise  Lost,'' — either  written  by 
himself,  or  published  with  his  express  sanction  : — 
"  The  measure  is  English  heroic  verse,  without 
rhyme,  as  ^hat  of  Homer  in  Greek,  and  Virgil  in 
I    tin;  rhyme  being  no  necessary  adjunct,  or  true 


112  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRV. 

ornament,  of  poem  or  good  verse,  in  larger  works 
especially,  but  the  invention  of  a  barbarous  age,  to 
set  off  wretched  matter  and  lame  metre  ;  graced, 
indeed,  since,  by  the  use  of  some  famous  modern 
poets,  carried  away  by  custom,  but  much  to  their 
own  vexation,  liinderance,  and  constraint  to  express 
many  things  otherwise,  and  for  the  most  part  worse, 
than  else  they  would  have  expressed  them.  Not 
without  cause,  therefore,  some,  both  Italian  and 
Spanish  poets  of  prime  note,  have  rejected  rhyme, 
both  in  larger  and  in  shorter  v;orks  ;  as  have  also, 
long  since,  our  best  English  tragedies ;  as  a  thing 
of  itself,  to  all  judicious  ears,  trivial  and  of  no  true 
musical  delight,  which  consists  only  in  apt  num- 
bers, fit  quantity  of  syllables,  and  the  sense  vari- 
ously drawn  out  from  one  verse  to  another;  not 
in  the  jingling  sound  of  like  endings, — a  fault 
studiously  avoided  by  the  learned  ancients,  both  in 
poetry  and  all  good  oratory.  This  neglect,  then, 
of  rhyme,  so  little  is  to  be  taken  for  a  defect,  though 
it  may  seem  so,  perhaps,  to  vulgar  readers,  that  it 
is  rather  lO  be  esteemed  an  example  set,  the  first 
in  English,  of  ancient  liberty  recovered  to  heroic 
poem,  from  the  troublesome  and  modern  bondage 
of  rhyming." 

Without  entering  into  any  argument  on  the  ques- 
tion, dogmatically  as  the  law  is  here  laid  down,  we 
may  at  once  appeal  to  Spenser,  Dryden,  Pope,  and 
many  of  our  contemporaries,  to  exonerate  rhyme 
from  the  indignity  cast  upon  it ;  though  we  are,  at 
the  same  time,  v;illing  to  allow  that  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  Thomson,  Young,  and  others  have  estab- 
lished for  blank  verse  all  the  high  claims  (except 
exclusiveness)  asserted  here.  Milton  himself  was 
not  happy  in  the  management  of  rhyme  ;  yet  it  can- 
not be  admitted  that  *'  Conius,''  "  Samson  Agonis- 
tvs,"  or  "  Paradise  Lost,"  outshine,  either  in  sublime 
embellishment,  or  "  colours  dipp'd  in  hea%en,"  the 
joyous  images,  the  moin-nfnl    l)eauty,  and  the  rapl 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  113 

abstractions,  of  •' L'Allegro,"  "II  Penseroso,"  and 
"Lycidas;"  thou<?h  tlie  versification  (throug-h  no 
fault  of  the  rhyme)  in  many  passages  of  these  is 
crabbed  in  the  construction,  and,  from  the  jostling 
transitions,  ungrateful  to  the  ear,  as  well  as  difficult 
to  follow.  But  since  two  sovereign  authorities, 
Milton  and  Pope,  are  at  variance  on  this  point,  il 
may  perhaps  be  best  decided  by  saying,  that  he 
wiio  can  employ  rhvme  like  the  one,  or  blank  verse 
like  the  other,  may  oa^ely  prefer  that  in  whicli  he 
himself  excels. 

Poetic  Phraseology. 

But  whatever  the  form,  the  theme,  or  the  compass 
of  a  poem,  the  diction  is  so  essential  to  excellence 
nd  to  success,  that  no  other  merit  will  compensate 
foKmeanness,  extravagance,  or  deficiency  here. 
Whe^^  there  is  grace,  vigour,  harmony  of  expres- 
sion, thl  field  is  more  than  half  won  ;  and,  presum- 
ing that  it  was  worth  winning,  the  victory  is  sure  to 
him  who  has,  with  a  fair  proportion  of  other  requi- 
sites, the  arbitrary  comm.and  of  these.  For  the  ob 
ject  of  the  poet  is, — not  merely  to  convey  informa- 
tion of  facts,  unravel  a  well-tangled  plot,  refute 
error,  or  establish  truth  by  argument,  nor  yet  to 
move  the  passions  and  delight  the  fancy  by  pathos 
and  imagery, — then,  like  the  historian,  the  novelist, 
or  the  logician,  leave  the  memory  of  the  reader  to 
retain,  as  it  may,  an  abstract  of  the  whole  that  has 
been  communicated : — no ;  but  it  is  the  poet's  purpose 
to  identify  in  the  reader's  mind  the  things  them- 
selves, with  the  very  phrases,  words,  syllables, 
sounds  through  which  they  were  communicated  ; 
because  therein  so  much  resides  the  enchantment 
of  pure  song,  that  a  very  slight  alteration  m;iy  quite 
change  the  character  both  of  the  ideas  themselves 
and  the  impression  which  they  are  calculated  to 
iiiake  in  the  oriffin^l  terms. 


114  THE     DICTION     OF    FOKTRY. 

So  evanescent  is  poeticnl  spirit,  so  inconvertible 
poetic  diction,  that  though  the  latter,  undisturbed, 
nia}'  rival  the  firmanient  in  durability,  and  like  the 
firmament  transmit  the  g-lories  inlaid  in  it  from  ^ene 
ration  to  g-eneration, — yet  so  frail  and  fugitive  is  the 
vehicle,  that,  unsettle  but  a  word,  it  breaks  like  a 
bubble,  and  the  unimprisoned  spirit  is  gone.  Let  us 
put  this  to  the  test.  Ariel,  the  delicate  sprite,  the 
finest  creation  of  the  finest  fancy  that  ever  peopled 
air,  eartli,  and  ocean  with  new  tribes  of  beautiful  or 
terrible  beings  ;— that  "  bodied  forth  the  shapes  of 
things"  unknown,  and  gave  "to  airy  nothings  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name," — Ariel,  the  loveliest  off- 
spring of  Shakspeare's  genius,  on  the  shore  of  "  the 
Enchanted  Island,"  sings  this  grotesque  air,  in  the 
hearing,  but  not  in  sight,  of  Ferdinand,  who  believes 
his  father  to  have  been  drowned  in  "  the  Tempest," 
from  which  the  drama  takes  its  name. 

"  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes , 

Nothing  in  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them — ding-dong,  bell." 

1  remark  not  on  the  sea-nymphs  ringing  the  kneli 
of  the  dead,  nor  on  the  conversion  of  bones  intc 
coral,  and  eyes  into  pearl, — but  I  earnestly  call  at 
tention  to  the  three  lines  which  so  indefinitely,  ye' 
picturesquely,  allude  to  the  mysterious  process  b^ 
which  these  transmutations  were  effected  : — 

"  Nothing  in  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

He  can  have  neither  poetic  ear  nor  poetic  feeling 
who  is  not  affected — he  knows  not  how,  and  cares 
not  wherefore — by  tlie  phrase  "-suffer  a  sca-change,^^ 
or  the  collocation  of  epithets  which  follows,  "  intG 


THE    DICTION     OF    P(JKTRY.  115 

something  rich  ayxd  strange.""  I  will  not  attempt,  by 
microscopic  criticism,  to  point  out  the  curiosity  ;iud 
felicity  of  these  tertus  ;  but,  by  substituting-  for  them 
words  which,  according-  to  dictionary  authority,  are 
perfectly  synonymous,  everybody  will  perceive  that 
the  poetry  has  escaped,  and  the  residuum  is  flat  prose. 
I  lay  no  stress  on  the  metre  of  the  original  (though 
the  slow  movement  has  in  it  an  undescribable  pa- 
thos), it  will  therefore  be  no  disparagement  to  my 
translation  that  it  is  not  given  in  verse,  which,  in- 
deed, has  been  avoided,  for  the  purpose  of  securing 
a  more  rigidly  literal  meaning. 

"  There's  nothing  in  him  that  decays, 
But  undergoes  an  alteration  from  the  water 
Into  something  valuable  and  xmcommon." 

"  Nothing  in  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange.'" 

Tempest,  Act  I.  Scene  2. 

Here  we  have  a  perfect  illustration  of  the  differ- 
ence between  what  is  poetical  and  what  is  prosaic, 
in  the  same  things.  Here,  also,  is  proof  of  that 
quality  in  poetic  language  which  has  povv^er  to 
"  change — into  something  rich  and  strange,"  what- 
ever is  subjected  to  it ;  for,  as  the  sea  is  represented 
to  convert  relics  of  mortality  into  rare  and  precious 
substances — pearls,  amber,  and  coral,  which  it 
throws  upon  the  beach  from  treasures  of  darkness 
elaborated  in  its  womb — so,  from  the  unsounded 
depths  of  invention,  the  poet  brings  up,  in  new  forms, 
old  images  and  ideas,  as  different  from  what  they 
were  when  received  into  his  mind,  as  bodies,  when 
buried  in  the  ocean,  were  from  what  they  became 
after  they  had  "  suffered^'''  that — 

"  sea-change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange ;" 

of  which  we  have  now  heard  enough. 


116  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRV. 

It  may  be  observed  in  this  place,  that  the  far 
greater  difficulty  of  translation  from  a  foreign  tongue 
into  a  vernacular  one  may  be  appreciated  by  the 
comparative  hopelessness  of  attempting  to  translate 
out  of  our  ovvn  into  our  own,  such  passages  as  the 
foregoing,  how  accurately  soever  the  sense  may  be 
given  in  terms  similar,  but  not  the  same  as  those 
wherein  the  poet  had  bound  it, — as  with  the  girdle 
of  Florimel,  which  none  but  she  for  whom  it  was 
made  could  wear,  and  which,  among  crowds  of  false 
claimants,  identified  the  true  owner  by  fitting  her 
alone.  It  is  remarkable,  also,  that  the  simplest 
thoughts,  in  the  simplest  words — those  which  trans- 
late themselves  at  first  sight — are  the  least  capable 
of  being  transfused  with  effect  into  any  other  words 
than  those  in  which  the  original  authors  arrayed 
them;  perhaps  for  this  reason,  that  the  sentiments 
themselves  would  never  have  been  expressed  at  all 
but  for  the  felicity  of  phrase,  which  the  idioms  of 
the  poet's  own  language,  without  searching,  sup- 
plied ;  these,  indeed,  may  be  elegantly  paraphrased, 
but  seldom  literally  rendered  without  irreparable 
deficiency  of  force.  It  will  not  be  questioned  that 
the  feelings  so  exquisitely  uttered  in  the  following 
lines  of  Catullus,  might  not,  with  equal  fervency  and 
tenderness,  be  breathed  forth  in  British  verse,  by  a 
traveller  long  detained,  and  late  arriving  at  his  happy 
home.  But  an  air  and  cast  as  entirely  different  must 
be  given  to  the  whole,  as  the  atmosphere  and  aspect 
of  things  around  the  lares  of  a  Roman  villa  must  have 
differed  from  the  warm  comforts  of  an  Englishman's 
fireside. 

"O  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis, 
Cum  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  peregrino 
Laboro  fessi  vcnimns  larem  ad  nostrum, 
Desideratoquo  acquioscimus  lecto !" 

How  much  even  these  sweet  lines  have  been  ex- 
celled, on  a  similar  theme,  in  the  language  of  our 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  117 

own  land,  every  one  must  feel  who  can  compare 
the  pure  eg-otism  of  Catullus  with  the  nobler  sympa- 
thies of  Coleridj^^e : — 

"  And  now,  beloved  Stowey  !  I  behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  niethinks,  the  four  huge  elms, 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend ; 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 
Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe. 
And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  ! — with  light 
And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  1  tread." 

Fears  in  Solitude. 

Variety  of  Style. 

Diction  in  poetry,  though  employed  expressly  for 
the  purpose  of  setting  off  the  writer's  thoughts  in 
the  most  advantageous  light,  according  to  their  char- 
acter and  the  nature  of  the  subject — but  so  as  always 
to  please,  directly  or  indirectly,  instantaneously  or 
on  reflection — diction,  we  observe,  is  capable  of 
every  variety  of  style,  from  the  simplest  to  the  most 
adorned  ;  from  the  most  sprightly  and  conversational 
to  the  most  sublime  and  severe.  It  is  the  practice 
of  vulgar  versifiers,  and  also  of  many  well-bred  ones 
— nay,  even  of  learned  clerks,  for  academical  poetry 
is  peculiarly  obnoxious  to  this  censure — to  labour 
their  diction  into  stiff  and  stately,  or  vapid  and 
affected  unintelligibility,  by  means  of  inverted  syn- 
tax, erudite  terms,  and  all  the  pedantry  of  circum- 
locution :  presuming,  that  it  must  of  course  approach 
so  much  the  nearer  to  verse  as  it  is  further  removed 
from  prose.  The  very  contrary  is  the  fact ;  the  best 
verse  most  nearly  resembles  the  best  prose  in  the 
plainness  of  the  words  employed,  the  natural  con- 
struction of  the  sentences,  and  the  easy  intelligence 
of  the  whole,  where  nothing  is  wantnig,  nothing 
superfluous,  nothing  out  of  place,  out  of  season,  or 
out  of  proportion;  in  short,  where  nothing  is  singu- 
lar for  the  sake  of  singularity,  or  out  of  the  ordinary 
course,  except  for  extraordinary  purposes.     Hobbes 


118  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

of  Malmsbury,  in  the  preface  to  his  Version  of  Ho- 
mer, has  a  beautiful  thought  and  comparison  on  this 
subject : — "  The  order  of  words,  when  phiced  as  they 
ought  to  be,  carries  a  light  before  it,  whereby  a  man 
may  foresee  the  length  of  his  period ;  as  a  torch  in 
the  night  showeth  a  man  the  stops  and  unevenness 
of  his  way." 

The  theories  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  the  late  Dr. 
Parwin  deserve  consideration  here. 

Mr.  Wordsworth'' s  Theory  of  Poetic  Diction. 

Among  living  authors,  not  one  has  shown  greater 
command  of  diction  than  Mr.  Wordsworth  ;  suiting 
his  style  to  his  subjects  with  consummate  address, 
though  sometimes  with  unhappy  effect,  from  the 
difficulty,  not  to  say  the  impossibility,  of  making 
general  readers  partakers,  by  direct  sympathy,  with 
his  peculiar  experiences  and  imaginings, — that  is, 
see  with  his  eyes,  hear  with  his  ears,  feel  with  his 
heart,  and  think  with  his  mind, — possess  them  wholly  ■ 
with  his  own  spirit,  or  for  the  time  being  absorb  each 
of  them  into  himself. 

In  an  age  of  poetical  innovations,  Mr.  Wordsworth 
has  undoubtedly  been  one  of  the  boldest  and  most 
successful  adventurers.  In  the  preface  to  his  "  Lyri- 
cal Ballads," — casting  away  at  once,  and  entirely, 
all  the  splendid  artifices  of  style,  invented  in  the 
earliest  ages  of  the  fathers  of  poetry,  and  perpetuated 
among  all  classes  of  their  successors,  he  avowed 
that  "  his  principal  object  was,  to  choose  incidents 
and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to  relate  and 
describe  them  throughout,  as  far  as  possible,  in  a 
selection  of  language  really  used  by  men  ;  and  at 
the  same  time  to  throw  upon  them  a  certain  colour- 
ing of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things  should 
be  presented  to  tlie  mind  in  an  unusual  way ;  and 
further,  and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and 
situations    interesting,  by   tracing  in   them   truly, 


TKE    DICTION    OF    POF.TRY.  119 

vfiou.qrh  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws  of  oui 
jiature,  chiefly  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in  which 
rre  associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement." 

Novv,  however  the  poet's  ingenuity  in  the  ad- 
trancen.^nl;  and  vindication  of  his  theory  of  phrase- 
ology may  deserve  commeiidation,  and  however  just 
the"  theory  may  be,  so  far  as  his  system  would  re- 
strict the  multitude  of  epithets  and  expletives  which 
often  render  verse  too  heavy  for  endurance, — we 
may  reasonably  protest  against  tho  unqualified  re- 
jection of  those  graces  of  diction  (suitable  to  the 
elevation  of  enthusiastic  thoughts  equally  above 
ordinary  discourse  and  ordinary  capacities),  which 
essentially  distinguish  poetry  from  prose,  and  have 
been  sanctioned  by  the  successful  usage  of  bards  in 
every  age  and  nation,  civilized  or  barbarous,  on  which 
the  light  of  song  hath  risen  with  its  quickening,  en- 
nobling, and  ameliorating  influences.  In  dramatic 
works,  assuredly,  the  w^riter,  through  all  his  charac- 
ters, should  speak  the  truth  of  living  nature  ;  the 
language  of  the  strong  passions  should  be  stern,  ab- 
rupt, sententious,  and  sublime ;  that  of  the  gentler 
affections,  ardent,  flowing,  figurative,  and  beautifully 
redundant ;  while,  in  both  instances,  every  colour 
of  expression,  every  form  of  thought  which  appeals 
to  the  imagination  only,  and  touches  not  the  heart, 
nor  adds  to  the  positive  interest  of  the  piece,  should 
be  rigorously  proscribed.  But  in  narrative,  descrip- 
tive, and  ethic  poetry,  I  know  no  law  of  nature,  and 
I  will  acknowledge  none  of  art,  that  forbids  Genius 
to  speak  his  mother  tongue, — a  language  (a  dialect 
rather,  of  every  distinct  language)  which,  in  sound 
and  structure,  as  well  as  in  character  and  sentiment, 
exalts  itself  far  above  any  models  of  common  speech  ; 
and  yet,  in  simplicity,  freedom,  and  intelligibility, 
according  to  the  subject,  equals  the  poorest  and  least 
ornamented  prose. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  allows  a  poet  to  be  a  person  "  of 
more  than  usnal  organic  sensibility;"  and  declares, 


120  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

that  "he  must  have  thought  long,  to  produce  poems 
to  which  any  value  can  be  attached."  With  these 
admissions,  we  may  fearlessly  assert,  that  a  poet — 
one  who  is  really  such — is  no  ordinary  man ;  nor 
are  his  compositions  the  prompt  and  spontaneous 
expressions  of  his  own  every-day  feelings.  No; 
they  are  the  most-hidden  ideas  of  his  soul,  discov- 
ered in  his  happiest  moments,  and  apparelled  in  his 
selectest  language.  Will  such  a  being,  then,  array 
the  most  pure,  sublime,  and  perfect  conceptions  of 
his  superior  mind,  in  its  highest  fervour,  only  with 
"  the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  excite- 
ment?" Compare  the  lofty  narratives  of  Milton, 
the  luxuriant  descriptions  of  Thomson,  the  solemn 
musings  of  Young ;  nay,  even  the  soliloquies,  and 
not  unfrequently  the  dialogues,  of  Shakspeare,  in 
which  characters  and  passions  are  portrayed  with 
unparalleled  force  and  feehng — compare  these  with 
•'  the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  excite- 
ment," on  the  very  same  subjects,  or  in  precisely 
the  same  situations,  however  animated,  interested, 
or  stimulated  they  may  be.  The  fact  is,  that  poet- 
ical sensibility  will,  on  ail  occasions— except  in  the 
bold,  brief,  instinctive  expression  of  the  highest  de- 
gree of  agony  or  rapture — suggest  language  more 
lively,  affecting,  and  fervent,  yet  not  a  whit  less 
natural,  than  passion  itself  can  inspire  in  minds  less 
tremblingly  alive  to  every  touch  of  pain  or  pleasure. 
Hence  the  dehght  communicated  by  poetry  is,  in 
general,  more  intensely  transporting  than  any  that 
could  be  derived  from  the  unassisted  contemplation 
of  the  objects  themselves,  which  are  presented  to 
us  by  the  magic  of  the  author's  art.  Of  that  art  his 
langusige  is  the  master-secret ;  and  by  this  charm  he 
transfuses  into  frigid  imaginations  his  warmer  feel- 
ings, and  into  dull  minds  his  brighter,  views,  on  sub- 
jects and  of  things  which  might  otherwise  only  in- 
differently affect  them  in  nature  and  reality. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  himself,  though  not  a  popular 


THK     DlCliON     OV    i-OKTKY.  121 

r  writer — nor  one  who  ever  can  be,  in  the  popular 
'  sense  of  the  phrase,  till  the  boasted  march  of  intel- 
lect has  made  much  more  way  than  it  is  likely  to  do 
for  half  a  century  to  come  ; — Mr.  Wordsworth  him- 
self has  established  a  reputation  of  the  proudest  rank 
upor«  the  surest  basis — the  admiration  of  the  most 
intellectual  class  of  readers,  who  can  distinguish 
what  is  exquisite  from  what  is  puerile,  what  is  grand 
from  what  is  obscure,  and  what  is  imaginative  from 
what  is  merely  fanciful,  in  his  own  multifarious  pro- 
ductions. But  hov/  has  he  accomplished  this  ]  Cer- 
tainly not  by  limiting  his  practice  within  his  theory. 
He  possesses  as  much  as  any  man  living  the  power 
of  awakening  unknown  and  ineffable  emotions  in  the 
bosoms  of  his  fellow-creatures;  and  he  has  exercised 
this  power  much  oftener  than  that  smaller  craft  of 
fashioning  "  Lyrical  Ballads"  and  Tales,  of  which 
mean  men  are  the  actors,  and  their  peculiarities  the 
themes  of  verse,  in  phraseology  such  as  they  might 
be  supposed  to  employ,  if,  instead  of  being  taught  to 
speak  in  rude  prose  from  their  infancy,  they  had 

"lisp'd  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came." 

His  "  Cumberland  Beggar,"  "  Tintern  Abbey,"  and 
"  Lines  on  the  Naming  of  Places,"  unpromising  as 
the  subjects  might  appear  at  first  sight,  with  many 
other  of  his  profound  and  curious  speculations,  have 
taught  us  new  sympathies,  the  existence  of  which  in 
human  nature  had  scarcely  been  intimated  by  any 
poet  before  him.  In  these  his  most  successful  efforts 
he  has  attired,  in  diction  of  the  most  transcendent 
beauty,  thoughts  the  most  recondite,  and  imagina- 
tions the  most  subtle.     Thus  : — 

"  1  have  leam'd 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing,  oftentimes, 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity ; 
Not  harsh  and  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
K 


122  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ; — a  sense  subUme 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is — the  light  of  settmg  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky, — and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Again, — 

"  Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  ihee,  in  thy  solitarj'  walk  ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  ;  and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure — when  thy  mhid 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh !  then, 

Jf  solitude,  or  pain,  or  fear,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thought* 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me  !" 

This  is  no  more  the  language  than  these  are  the 
thoughts  of  men  in  general  "  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment;" language  more  exquisitely  elahorate,  and 
thoughts  more  patiently  worked  out  of  the  very 
marble  of  the  mind,  are  rarely,  indeed,  to  be  met 
with  either  in  prose  or  rhyme.  For  such  tales  as 
"  Andrew  Jones,"  "  The  Last  of  the  Flock,"  "  Goody 
Blake  and  Harry  Gill,"  &c.,  the  real  language  of  men 
may  be  employed  with  pleasing  effect ;  but  when  our 
poet  would  "  present  ordinary  things  in  an  unusual 
way,"  he  is  compelled  to  resort  to  gorgeous,  figura- 
tive, and  amplifying  terms,  and  avail  himself  of  ttie 
most  daring  licenses  of  poetic  diction.     Thus  :— 

"  The  winds,  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now,  like  sleeping  flowers." 

"  It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  mm, 
Breathless  with  adoration .'" 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  123 

*  Flowers  laugh  before  thee  in  their  beds, 
AxA  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads." 

"  The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep, 
The  winds  come  o'er  us  from  the  fields  of  sleep." 

1  need  not  insist  more  on  the  necessity  of  using, 
in  roetry,  a  language  different  from,  and  superior  to, 
"  the  real  language  of  men,"  even  under  the  strongest 
ex.citement,  since  our  author  himself  is  so  often  com- 
pelled, nay,  rather  chooses  voluntarily,  to  employ  it 
for  the  expression  of  ideas  which  without  it  would 
be  incommunicable.  One  instance  of  the  happy  use 
of  the  simplest  language  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  must 
be  given,  injustice  to  him.  The  poem  of  the  "  Old 
Cumberland  Beggar"  is,  perhaps,  the  masterpiece 
of  his  early  volumes.  In  this  we  have  the  descrip- 
tion of  an  ancient  parish  pensioner,  not  receiving 
pay,  but  collecting  doles  from  the  friendly  cottagers 
as  well  as  the  wealthier  inhabitants  in  his  daily 
rounds;  welcomed  everywhere,  and  everywhere 
relieved, — a  harmless,  helpless,  quiet-paced,  and 
quiet-tongued  old  man,  whose  presence  is  a  blessing 
to  the  neighbourhood,  by  making  the  humblest,  as 
well  as  the  highest,  feel  how  good  it  is  to  do  good 
For 

"  Man  is  dear  to  man ;  the  poorest  poor 
Long  for  some  moments,  in  a  weary  life, 
When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been 
Themselves  the  fathers  and  the  dealers  out 
Of  some  small  blessings — have  been  kind  to  such 
As  needed  kindness ; — for  this  single  cause, 
That  we  have  all  of  us  a  human  heart. 

"  Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  being  known, 
My  neighbour,  when,  with  punctual  care,  each  week, 
Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 
By  her  own  wants,  she,  from  her  store  of  meal, 
Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 
Of  this  old  mendicant ;  and,  from  her  door. 
Returning  with  exhilarated  heart, 
8iis  by  her  tire,  anu  builds  her  hopes  in  heaven." 


124  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 


Dr.  Darwin's  Theory  of  Poetic  Sli/ltr 

The  late  Dr.  Darwin,  a  poet  of  very  different  ca?* 
from  Mr.  Wordsworth,  tells  us,  that  the  essential 
difference  between  prose  and  poetry  consists,  not 
solely  in  the  melody  or  measure  of  language,  because 
some  prose  has  melody  and  even  measure ;  nor  in  the 
sublimity,  beauty,  or  novelty  of  the  sentiments,  be- 
cause, as  he  asserts,  sublime  sentiments  are  some- 
times better  expressed  in  prose.  Of  this  he  gives 
an  example  from  one  of  Shakspeare's  historical 
plays : — "  When  Warwick  is  left  wounded  on  the 
field  after  the  loss  of  the  battle,  and  his  friend  says 
to  him,  '  Oh !  could  you  but  fly  !'  what  can  be  more 
sublime  than  his  answer,  'Why  then  I  would  not 
fly !'  No  measure  of  verse  could  add  dignity  to  this 
sentiment."— Without  disputing  his  position,  I  answer 
that  the  words  are  verse  already.  I  know  not  how 
they  stand  in  the  original ;  but  placing  the  interjection 
"  Oh !"  as  the  closing  syllable  of  a  line,  and  laying  the 
natural  emphasis  on  the  verb  negative,  and  not  merely 
on  the  sign  of  negation,  we  have  a  perfect  heroic 
verse. 

"Oh! 
Could  you  but/y  / — 

Why  then  J  would  not  fly  !" 

The  doctor  continues  : — "  In  what,  then,  consists 
the  essential  difference  between  poetry  and  prose  ? 
Next  to  the  measure  of  the  language,  the  principal 
distinction  appears  to  be  this  :  that  poetry  admits  of 
but  few  words  expressive  of  very  abstracted  ideas ; 
whereas  prose  abounds  with  them.  And  as  our  ideas 
derived  from  visible  objects  are  more  distinct  than 
those  derived  from  the  objects  of  our  other  senses, 
the  words  expressive  of  these  ideas  belonging  to 
vision  make  up  the  principal  part  of  poetic  language ; 
hat  is,  the  poet  writes  principally  to  the  eye,  the . 
prosG' writer  uses  more  abstracted  terms.     Mr.  Pope 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  125 

has  written  a  bad  verse  in  the  'Windsor  For- 
est :'— 

*  And  Kennet  swift,  for  silver  eels  renown'd.'' 

The  word  'renown'd'  does  not  present  a  visible 
object  to  the  mind,  and  is  thence  prosaic.  But 
change  the  line  thus : — 

And  Kennet  swift,  where  silver  graylings  jjZay, 

and  it  becomes  poetry ;  because  the  scenery  is  then 
brought  before  the  eye.  This  may  be  done  in  prose  ; 
so  it  is  more  agreeable  to  read  in  Mr.  Gibbon's 
History,  '  Germany  was  at  that  time  overshadowed 
with  extensiv3  forests,'  than  that  Germany  was  at 
that  time  full  of  extensive  forests.  But  when  this 
mode  of  expression  occurs  too  frequently,  the  prose 
approaches  to  poetry ;  and  in  grave  works,  where 
we  expect  to  be  instructed  rather  than  amused,  it 
becomes  tedious  and  impertinent." 

Thus  far  Dr.  Darwin.  I  reply: — this  is  arguing 
completely  in  a  circle.  "  Why  then  I  ivoidd  not  fly" 
is  undoubtedly  verse  by  the  measure,  and  poetry  by 
the  sublimitij  of  the  sentiment ;  while,  without  the 
variation  of  a  syllable,  and  simply  reading  it  accord- 
ing to  the  prosaic  accents,  it  is  prose. 

"  Oh !  could  you  hut  fly  /—Why  then  I  would  7iot  fly !" 

It  follows,  that  thoughts  of  this  character  are  com- 
mon alike  to  prose  and  verse,  and  may  be  expressed 
in  either.  If  Dr.  Darwin's  criticism  excludes  the 
phrase  "  for  silver  eels  renowrCd,''''  from  poetry,  it 
proves  too  much,  for  then  the  poet  must  not  give 
the  eels  at  all  that  lie  in  the  mud.  He  miglit,  indeed, 
represent  a  fishwife  stripping-  the  skin  from  the 
writhing  creature,  but  he  could  not  even  allude  to 
their  luxurious  sloth  in  the  slimy  ooze,  where  they 
cannot  be  watched.  This  may  be  called  qui-bbling; 
but  it  must  be  admitted,  that  the  epithet  "  silver" 
gives  an  image  to  the  eye  which  sufliciently  vindi- 


126  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

cates  the  poetry  of  the  line  against  the  prosaic  parti- 
ciple "  renown'd ;"  while  the  latter  conveys  an  idea 
which  no  ohject  of  vision  whatever  could  imply.  Is 
the  poet,  then,  to  be  precluded  from  celebrating  the 
peculiar  pre-eminence  of  the  river  Kennet  for  its 
peculiar  fish,  because  the  word  that  designates  its 
superiority  is  an  abstract  term  1  "  Germany  was 
at  that  time  overshadowed  with  extensive  forests!" 
The  doctor  acknowledges  that  the  poetic  verb  here 
used  animates  the  prose  ;  why  then  may  not  abstract 
terms  (though  in  themselves  prosaic)  occasionally 
be  employed  to  temper  the  ardour  of  verse,  as  snow 
in  hot  climates,  sprinkled  over  the  wine-cup,  makes 
the  draught  more  delicious  1  The  whole  range  of 
language  and  of  thought  must  be  conceded  to  writers 
of  both  kinds  ;  and  it  depends  upon  their  own  taste, 
at  their  own  peril,  to  mingle,  discreetly  or  otherwise, 
with  the  staple  of  their  diction,  terms  which  are  con- 
ventionally understood  to  belong  to  poetry  and  prose, 
in  precisely  inverse  proportions. 

Dr.  Darwin  has  splendidly  exemplified  the  effects 
of  his  own  theory,  which  certainly  irtcludes  much 
truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth.  Endued  with  a  fancy 
peculiarly  formed  for  picture-poetry,  he  has  limited 
verse  almost  within  the  compass  of  designing  and 
modelling  with  visible  colours  and  palpable  sub- 
stances. Even  in  this  poetic  painting,  he  seldom 
goes  beyond  the  brilliant  minuteness  of  the  Dutch 
school  of  artists,  while  his  groups  are  the  extreme 
reverse  of  theirs,  bei^ig  rigidly  classical.  His  pro- 
ductions are  undistinguished  by  either  sentiment  or 
pathos.  He  presents  nothing  but  pageants  to  the 
eye,  and  leaves  next  to  nothing  to  the  imagination ; 
every  point  and  object  being  made  out  in  noonday 
clearness,  where  tlie  sun  is  nearly  vertical,  and  the 
shadow  most  contracted.  He  never  touches  the 
heart,  nor  awakens  social,  tender,  or  playful  emo- 
tions. His  whole  "  Botanic  Garden"  might  be 
sculptured  in  friezes,  painted  in  enamel,  or  manu- 


THFC    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  127 

factured  in  Wedgwood  ware.  "  The  Loves  of  the 
Plants"  consists  of  a  series  of  metamorphoses,  all 
of  the  same  kind, — plants  personified,  having  the 
passions  of  animals,  or  rather  such  passions  as 
animals  might  be  supposed  to  have,  if,  instead  of 
warm  blood,  cool  vegetable  juices  circulated  thiough 
their-^eins;  so  that,  though  every  lady-flower  has 
from  one  to  twenty  beaux,  all  slighted  and  favoured 
in  turn,  the  wooings  and  the  weddings  are  so  scrupu- 
lously Linnaean,  that  no  human  affection  is  ever  con- 
cerned in  the  matter.  What  velvet  painting  can  be 
more  exquisite  than  the  following  lines,  in  which  the 
various  insects  are  touched  to  the  very  life "? — 

"  Stay  thy  soft  murmuring  waters,  gentle  rill ;  ' 

Hush,  wiiispering  winds  ;  ye  rustUng  leaves,  be  still ; 
Rest,  silver  butterflies,  your  quivering  wings  ; 
Alight,  ye  beetles,  from  your  airy  rings  ; 
Ye  painted  moths,  your  gold-eyed  plumage  furl. 
Bow  your  wide  horns,  your  spiral  trunks  uncurl ; 
Glitter,  ye  glow-worms,  on  your  mossy  beds ; 
Descend,  ye  spiders,  on  your  lengthen'd  threads  ; 
Slide  here,  ye  horned  snails,  with  varnish'd  shells  ; 
Ye  bee-nymphs,  listen  in  your  waxen  cells." 

In  such  descriptions  Darwin  excels,  and  his  theory 
is  triumphant ;  but  to  prove  it  of  universal  applica- 
tion, it  must  be  put  to  a  higher  test.  In  the  third 
canto  of  the  "Botanic  Garden,"  Part  II.,  there  is  a 
fine  scene — a  lady,  from  the  "  wood-crowned  height" 
of  Minden,  overlooking  tlie  battle  in  which  her  hus- 
band is  engaged.  As  the  conflict  thickens,  she  watches 
his  banner  shifting  from  hill  to  hill,  and  when  the 
enemy  is  at  length  beaten  from  every  post, 

"  Near  and  more  near  the  intrepid  beauty  press'd. 
Saw  through  the  driving  smoke  his  dancing  crest ; 
Saw  on  his  helm,  her  virgin  hands  inwove, 
Bright  stars  of  gold,  and  mystic  knots  of  love  ; 
Heard  the  exulting  shout,  ''  They  run,  they  run  !' 
'  Great  God  !'  she  cried,  'he's  safe,  the  battle's  won  '' 
— A  ball  now  hisses  through  the  airy  tides 
(Some  fury  wing'd  it,  and  some  demon  guides "i. 


128  THE    DICTION     OF    POETRY. 

Parts  her  fine  locks  her  graceful  head  that  ('eck, 
Wounds  her  fair  ear,  and  sinks  into  her  neck  ; 
The  red  stream  issuing  from  her  azure  veins, 
Dies  her  white  veil,  her  ivory  bosom  stains  !" 

Every  syllable  here  is  addressed  to  the  eye  ;  there 
is  not  a  word  for  the  heart ;  the  poet  himself  migh^ 
have  been  the  bullet  that  shot  the  lady,  so  insensible 
is  he  of  the  horror  of  the  deed.  Or  he  might  have 
been  a  surgeon,  deposing  before  a  coroner's  inquest 
over  the  body,  under  what  circumstances  said  lady 
came  to  her  death,  so  anatomically  correct  is  the 
process  of  the  wound  laid  down  ;  yet,  even  in  that 
case,  he  appears  a  peiit-mailre  of  the  scalpel,  so  deli- 
cately does  he  talk  about — mark  v»'ell  the  epithets ! 
— the  ''fijie  locks,"  the  ''graceful  headj"  the  "-fair 
ear,"  the  "neck,"  the  ''red  stream,"  the  "azure 
veins,"  the  " tt'/wVe  veil,"  and  the  "ivory  bosom  ;" — a 
perfect  inventory" of  the  lady's  charms;  without  a 
sigh,  a  tear,  or  the  wink  of  an  eyelid  over  the  matron 
slain  between  her  two  children,  the  wife  struck  dead 
in  the  presence  of  her  husband  returning  victorious 
from  battle  to  her  embrace.  This  may  be  poetry, 
but  it  is  not  nature  ;  and  such,  in  every  instance, 
more  or  less,  is  the  poetry  v/hich  is  formed  accord- 
ing to  artificial  rules. 

I  have  not  time  to  discuss  the  sequel, — the  lady's 
last  words:  they  are  equally  out  of  character.  Those 
who  have  the  opportunity  may  compare  the  death- 
scene  (much  to  the  advantage  of  the  living  author) 
with  that  of  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  which  may  have 
been  suggested  (very  remotely  and  quite  uncon- 
sciously) by  Darwin's  Eliza.  Sir  Walter  Scolt  ex- 
cels in  painting  battle-pieces,  as  overseen  by  some 
interested  spectator.  Eliza  at  Minden  is  circum- 
stanced so  nearly  like  Clara  at  Flodden,  that  the 
mighty  Minstrel  of  the  North  may  possibly  have 
caught  the  idea  of  tiie  latter  from  the  Lichfield  bot 
anist;  but,  oh!  how  has  he  triumphed! 


THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY.  129 


Poetic  Licenses  and  Dialects. 

The  limits  of  these  papers  will  not  allow  us  to  go 
particularly  into  the  subject  of  poetic  licenses,  which 
Deloii{;  to  this  part  of  our  subject.  It  is  therefore 
only  necessary  to  remark,  that  in  every  languag-e  in 
which  metre  has  been  framed  (even  m  the  Hebrew, 
though  there  it  cannot  be  so  accurately  traced,)  min- 
strels have  taken  liberties  with  the  vernacular  idiom, 
verbal,  g-rammatical.  and  constructive  ;  which,  while 
they  would  be  barbarous  in  speech,  are  yet  graceful 
in  song. 

The  Greeks  had  the  range  of  all  their  native  dia- 
lects for  ornamental  use,  as  well  as  the  choice  of 
one  for  the  staple  of  their  verse.  The  delicate 
spii'xikling  of  antiquated  words  over  Virgil's  pure  and 
hifeh  latinity  g:ives  an  unspeakable  charm  to  an  oc- 
casional )iae ;  and  Lucretius  lays  more  powerful  hold 
upon  the  imagination  itself  by  this  spell  than  his  cold 
philosophical  theme,  in  its  didactic  passages,  could 
have  achieved  without  the  aid  of  something  so  ex- 
quisitely venerable. 

The  modern  Italians  have  a  poetic  dialect  so  dis- 
tinct from  that  of  prose,  that  it  may  be  said  of  the 
twain  that  they  are  "  neither  the  same,  nor  yet  unlike, 
as  sisters  well  maybe."  What  is  remarkable  in  this 
musical  speech  (every  sentence  of  which  might  be 
delivered  in  recitativo),  and  which  is  so  jealous  of 
the  slightest  harshness,  that  every  consonant  is 
guarded  by  a  vowel, — is  the  circumstance,  that  those 
very  vowels  which  give  fulness  and  volubility  to 
prose  are  frequently  excluded  to  enrich  and  ennoble 
verse  with  the  strength  of  consonants. 

French  metre  admits  peculiar  privileges  in  scan- 
ning, and  requires  certain  reciprocities  in  rhyming 
(the  alternation  of  what  are  called  masculine  and 
feminine  endings),  which  sufficiently  distinguish  it 
from  other  compositions,  written  or  spoken.     Bu* 


130  THE    DICTION    OF    POKTRY. 

the  delicacies  of  verse  in  this  subtle  and  volatile 
tongue  are  with  such  difficulty  apprehended  by  for- 
eigners, that  few  regard  them  otherwise  than  as  real 
insipidities.     Take  a  specimen  from  Boileaii : — 

"  Sophocle  enfin,  donnant  I'essor  a  son  genie, 
Accrut  encore  la  pompe,  augmenta  rharmonie  , 
Int^ressa  le  Choeur  dans  toute  Faction, 
De  vers  trop  rabotteux  polit  I'expression ; 
Lui  donna  chez  les  Grecs  cette  hauteur  divine, 
Ou  jamais  n'aiteignit  la  foiblesse  Latine.'' 

L'Art  Poetique,  Chant  iif. 

The  rhymes  of  the  first  two  couplets  are  so  utterly 
French  that  an  English  tongue  can  scarcely  touch 
or  an  English  ear  arrest  them ;  the  measure,  too,  is 
equally  serpentine  and  slippery,  being  no  sooner 
perceived  in  one  undulation  of  cadence  than,  when 
you  think  yourself  sure  of  catchmg  it,  it  lapses  into 
another.  The  last  couplet,  alone,  is  easily  legible 
and  intelligible  to  strangers  in  rhyme  and  accentu- 
ation. Herein,  probably,  I  betray  my  own  igno- 
rance, but  I  believe  that  my  countrymen  in  general 
(familiar  as  bad  French  has  become  in  their  mouths, 
and  evasive  as  good  is  to  their  ears)  would  bear  me 
out  in  the  statement,  as  matter  of  fact  in  respect  to 
themselves. 

In  Spanish  there  are  niceties  of  rhythm,  rhyme, 
and  corresponding  terminations,  neither  quite  rhyme 
nor  altogether  blank,  which  render  that  language  one 
of  the  most  pliant  and  effective  for  the  utterance  of 
poetic  conceptions  in  almost  every  imaginable  form 
of  metre.  No  wonder  that,  with  such  plastic  ma- 
terials, Lopez  de  Vega  poured  forth  his  millions  of 
lines  as  readily  as  melted  metal  may  be  run  into  all 
manner  of  moulds. 

The  German,  if  it  have  not  equal  grace  with  some 
of  its  contemporaries  of  classical  descent,  has  more 
comprehensiveness,  and  can  express  with  enviable 
facility  the  different  cadences  of  quantity  and  of  ac- 
cent, with  either  rhyme  or  blank  endings.  \ 


Tin:     DICTION     OF     FOKTRY.  131 

Our  English  poetry  lias  not  assumed  any  extra- 
ordinary prerogative  in  modifying  words  to  meet  its 
exigences,  or  the  caprices  of  its  professors.  One 
only  of  the  latter,  Spenser,  has  dared  to  frame  an 
almost  arbitrary  vocabulary,  varying  the  diction  of 
his  "  Faerie  Queene"  from  that  of  his  "  Shepheard's 
Calender,"  and  again  in  his  minor  pieces  employing 
a  dialect  between  the  ruggedness  of  the  latter,  and 
the  romantic  stateliness  of  the  former.  But  Spenser 
was  one  of  the  masters  of  the  lyre,  and  if  he  length- 
ened and  abridged  the  strings,  or  added  to  their 
number,  according  to  his  fancy,  it  was  to  produce 
harmony  otherwise  unattainable,  and  to  give  others, 
less  adventurous  than  he,  scope  as  well  as  courage 
to  follow  him  into  the  heights  and  depths  of  our 
noble  language,  which  has  never  yet,  perhaps,  been 
essayed  through  the  whole  compass  of  its  scale. 
To  suit  the  rhyme,  the  cadence,  the  length,  or  the 
euphony  of  his  lines,  he  adopted  old  words,  or  new, 
added  or  curtailed  syllables,  varied  terminations,  vio- 
lated syntax,  and  wrote  the  larger  portion  of  his  im- 
perishable, though  for  ever  unpopular  (since  his  own 
age),  compositions  in  what,  without  consummate  art 
and  management,  would  have  very  much  resembled 
the  "  Babylonish  dialect"  of  Butler's  hero,— 

"A  party-colour'd  dress 
Of  patcht  and  pie-ball'd  languages ; 
But  when  he  pleased  to  show  't,  his  speech 
I    loftiness  of  sound  was  rich." 

His  ninth  eclogue  begins  thus : — 

HOBBINOL. 

"  Diggon  Davie !  I  bid  her  good  day ; 
Or  Diggon  her  is,  or  I  mis-say. 


Her  was  her,  wliile  it  was  day-hght, 

But  novve  her  is  a  most  wretched  wight ; 

For  day  that  was  is  wightly  past, 

And  now  at  earst  the  di  -ke  night  doth  haste.' 


132  THK    DICTION    OF    POKTRV. 

Surely  this  is  neither  Welsh  nor  English  ;  nothing 
m  Chaucer  is  more  uncouth.  I  need  not  quote  from 
the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  having  given  a  stanza  in  a 
former  paper.  The  quaint  yet  sweet,  the  homely 
yet  venerable  style  in  Vv^hich  it  is  composed  has  be- 
come well  known  ;  less,  indeed,  from  the  original 
than  from  the  numerous  imitations  of  it,  especially 
Thomson's  "  Castle  of  Indolence ;"  a  structure  of 
genuine  talent,  certainly  not  piled  when  that  "  bard, 
more  fat  than  bard  beseems,"  was,  where  he  delighted 
to  be,  on  the  spot  itself,  though  so  witchingly  framed 
for  voluptuous  ease,  that  the  reader  is  ready  to  lie 
down  under  its  influence, — not,  however,  to  sleep. 

Scottish  Verse. 

The  language  (shall  I  call  if?)  of  our  northern 
neighbours,  in  which  so  much  popular  poetry  has 
been  preserved,  and  so  much  more  compiled  of  late 
years,  has  the  same  peculiar  character  as  Spenser's ; 
namely,  that  it  is  fluctuating,  not  fixed  ;  a  conven- 
tional, not  an  actual,  language.  Its  basis  was,  un- 
doubtedly, a  national  dialect  now  nearly  obsolete ; 
but  its  superstructure  consists  of  vulgar  idioms,  and 
its  embellishments  of  pure  English  phrases.  Hence, 
as  it  is  written  (for  1  confine  these  strictures  to  its 
ivriiten  forms),  this  admired  "  Scotch''''  is  an  arbitrary 
system  of  terms,  only  remotely  akin ;  and  its  force 
and  elegance  depend  principally  on  the  skill  with 
which  each  particular  author  combines  its  constituent 
parts,  to  make  a  common  chord  of  its  triple  tones. 
That  style,  therefore,  may,  in  general,  be  pronounced 
the  most  harmonious  and  perfect  in  which  the  national 
dialect  is  thfj  key-note,  while  the  vulgar  and  the  Eng- 
lish (like  the  third  nndjiffh  in  music)  are  subordinate. 
This  flexible  and  untamcable  tongue — vv'hicli  the 
Doric  muse,  when  she  fled  from  Greece,  migiit  liave 
invented  for  herself,  while  learning  the  old  Erse, 
among  the  mountains  and  glens  of  Caledonia, — has 


THK     DI07ION     OF     POKTRY.  133 

also  a  /nmor  scale,  of  touching  tenderness,  as  well  as 
a  major ^  of  spirit-stirring'  strength. 

Burns,  "the  glory"  of  his'country,or  "the  shame," 
as  he  worthily  or  ignominiously  exercised  his  vein 
of  versatile  genius,  disdained  to  confine  his  strains 
to  any  peculiar  accordance  of  the^e  :  but,  according 
to  the  theme,  ran  through  the  whole  vernacular 
diapason,  as  well  as  the  falsetto  English,  in  which 
his  feebler  pieces  are  composed.  Of  the  latter,  it 
would  be  wasting  time  to  offer  an  example,  because 
a  longer  quotation  than  convenient  might  be  required, 
to  prove  a  point  of  little  significance.  Three  speci- 
mens, however,  to  show  the  gradations,  of  what  is 
vulgarly  called  the  Scotch  dialect,  employed  by  him, 
may  be  expedient  and  acceptable,  as  they  will  be 
quite  in  place,  while  we  are  considering  poetic  dic- 
tion and  poetic  license.  Brief  though  they  be,  these 
extracts  from  long  poems,  quite  distinct  from  each 
other,  in  their  general  diction,  will  at  once  discover 
to  the  unsuspecting  admirers  of  north  country  song 
what  prodigious  advantages  its  minstrels  possess 
over  their  "  southron"  brethren,  who  are  confined  to 
sheer  English,  and  dare  not  toucli  a  provincial  ac- 
cent with  the  tip  of  their  tongue,  on  pain  of  excom- 
munication from  classic  society.  The  boundless 
resources  enjoyed  by  the  former,  to  select  and  link 
together  words  and  phrases  at  will,  high  or  low,  an- 
tique or  new-fangled,  polished  or  barbarian, — not 
only  prepossess  the  reader  in  favour  of  every  reai 
beauty  struck  out  by  such  grotesque  combinations, 
and  make  him  eagerly  relish  it,  but  they  likewise 
(unconsciously  to  himself)  influence  his  judgment, 
to  make  large  allowance  for  frequent  defects  and 
excesses,  as  necessary,  and  not  offensive  ingredients, 
in  a  style  rt^leased  from  all  obligations  to  law  and 
precedent. 

I  begin  with  the  rudest,  which  I  scarcely  can 
hope  to  read  intelligibly  in  English  ears,  so  unskilled 
am  I  in  the  accents  of  mv  mother  tongue.     The 


134  THE    DICTION    OF    POETRY. 

"  Farmer's  New  Year's  Morning  Salutation  to  his 
auld  Mare  Maggie"  is  written  in  such  uncouth  strains 
as  these : 

"  A  gnid  new-year,  I  wish  thee,  Maggie  I 
Hae  !  there's  a  ripp*  to  thy  auld  baggie  ; 
Tho'  thou's  howe-backitt  now,  and  knaggie, 

I've  seen  the  day, 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  hke  onie  staggie 

Out-owre  the  lay." 


'  When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie  :J 
Tho'  ye  was  tricklie,  slee  and  funnie. 

Yet  ne'er  was  donsie  ;^ 
But  hamely,  tawie,|l  quiet,  an'  cannie,ir 

An'  unco  sonsie.*  * 


Thou  never  braindg't,tt  an'  fetcht,tt  an'  fliskit  ;t5)<J 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fiU'd  brisket, H]! 

Wi'  pith  and  pow'r, 
Till  sprittie  knowes^^  wad  rair't  and  risket, 

An'  slippet  owre."*** 

In  the  "Advice  to  a  Young  Friend,"  we  have 
nearly  the  national  Scotch,  as  it  is  used  among  per- 
sons of  the  middle  rank  ;  most  characteristically  in- 
culcating, among  others,  this  shrewd  lesson: — 

"  Aye  free,  afFhan',  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom-crony ; 
But  still  keep  soijiething  to  yoursel' 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony  : 
Conceal  yourself  as  weel  's  ye  can 

Fra'  critical  dissection. 
Bat  keekftt  thro'  every  other  man 

With  sharpcn'd  sly  inspection." 


•A  handful  of  unthrashed  corn.  t  Hump-bucked  and  bare-boned. 

J  Dam  (Mother).         (>  Mischievous.  i|  Ea.sily  handled.         V  Gentle. 

•*  I.iTely.  Tt  Stumbled.  ++  Tulled  liard.  <\»J  Fretted. 

nil  Spread  abroad  thy  chest.        11 V.  Brushwood  hillocks.        **'*  Crashed, 
uprooted,  ajid  thrown  down.  ttt  I'eep. 


•niK    DICTION    OF     POETRY.  135 

In  '•  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  the  poet  has  so 
varied  his  dialect  that  there  are  scarcely  two  con- 
secutive stanzas  written  accordini^  to  tlie  same  model 
An  hour  of  winter  evening'  music  on  the  ^EoUan  harp, 
when  'ill  the  winds  are  on  the  wing,  would  hardly 
be  more  wild,  and  sweet,  and  stern,  and  changeable 
than  the  series.  Some  of  the  strains  are  as  purely 
English  as  the  author  could  reach ;  others  so  racily 
Scottish  as  often  to  require  a  glossary ;  while  in  a 
third  class  the  two  are  so  enchantingly  combined, 
that  no  poetic  diction  can  excel  the  pathos  and  sub- 
limity, blended  with  beauty  and  homeliness,  that 
equally  mark  them.  Of  the  latter  description  is  the 
following: 

"  The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  \vi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,*  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  reverefitly  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffetsf  wearing  thin  an'  bare  ; 
Those  strains  tliat  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  walesj  a  portion  with  judicious  care : 
And,  'Let  us  worship  God!'" he  says,  with  solemn  air." 

The  latitudinarianism  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in 
ff  yming,  jingling,  or  merely  alliterative  vowel  sounds, 
in  dissonant  words  at  the  end  of  lines,  may  be  thus 
exemphfied : 

"  O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ; 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly. 
And  mouldering  now,  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly ; 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core. 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary  !" 

Fondly  and  kindly, — dearly  and  Mary  could  never 

*i^lfe.  t  Gray  side- lo»k<!.  t  Choose* 


136  THF.    DICTION    OF    POETRV. 

be  endured  as  rhymes  on  this  side  of  the  Tweed; 
but  yet  the  slight  sprinkling  of  Scottish  in  the  con- 
text, with  the  overpowering  tenderness  of  the  senti- 
ments themselves,  render  these  discords  tolerable, 
or  rather  compel  them  to  be  forgotten  in  such  asso- 
ciation. 

Finally,  this  composite  dialect  adds  exquisite 
quaintness  to  humorous,  and  a  simple  grace  to  ordi- 
nary forms  of  speech,  while  it  renders  grand  and 
terrific  imagery  more  striking  and  dreadful.  It  is 
hardly  a  language  of  this  world  in  the  witching  scene 
in  "  Tarn  O'Shanter,"  that  miracle  of  the  muse  of 
Burns,  in  which  all  his  talents  are  brought  into  play, 
on  a  subject  most  gross  and  abominable,  yet  in  the 
passage  alluded  to  preternaturally  awful  and  myste- 
rious, so  long  as  he  maintains  his  gravity  in  describ- 
ing the  obscene  and  horrid  rites  of  the  "  secret,  black, 
and  midnight  hags,"  within  the  wails  of  Auld  Kirk 
Alloway,  Satan  himself  being  J)ag-piper  to  theii 
dancing. 

"  Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses  : 
And,  by  some  devilish  cantrip-sleight, 
Each  in  his  cauld  hand  held  a  light ; 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
— A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet-airns, 
Twa  span-lang  wee  unchristen'd  bairns^ 
A  thief  new  cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi^  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 
Five  tomahawks  wi'  blude  red-rusted, 
Five  scymetars  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 
A  knife,  a  lather's  throat  had  mangled, 
Wham  liis  ain  son  o'  life  bereft, 
—  The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  hcft.^' 
***** 

"  Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  an'  awfu', 
Which  e'en  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'." 

The  elision  of  the  final  /  in  the  last  rhvmes  of  this 


THE    DICTiaX    OF    POKTFiY.  I '^7 

extract  is  singularly  expressive  of  the  horror  that 
clips  the  breath  of  the  speaker,  while  he  imagines 
himself  the  spectator  of  "  deeds  without  a  name." 
Such  criticisms  may  seem  frivolous  to  some  incuri- 
ous persons  :  but  every  poet  at  least  will  know  how 
to  estimate  the  value  of  licenses  like  these,  to  do 
what  he  pleases  with  words,  and  make  words  do 
ivhat  they  are  bidden.  But  with  all  these  immunities 
the  writers  of  Scottish  verse  are  so  limited  in  their 
ranges  of  subjects,  and  the  compass  of  their  song, 
that  their  pieces  must  of  necessity  be  brief,  and  their 
themes  nearly  confined  to  humour,  pathos,  and  fami- 
liar description.  A  great  w^ork,  like  an  epic  poem, 
could  not  be  achieved  in  so  lawless  a  dialect. 

Capabilities  of  Languages. 

Limited,  however,  as  poetic  license  may  be  in  a 
severe  and  uncompromising  language  like  ours,  the 
man  of  original  genius  will  never  be  at  a  loss  to  adapt 
its  resources  to  his  exigencies,  and  so  to  assimilate 
the  medium  of  communication  with  the  character  of 
his  own  mind  as  to  give  to  his  most  recondite  con- 
ceptions such  perfect  development  that  no  version 
in  a  foreign  idiom  shall  equal  in  effect  the  sounds  and 
syllables  which  he  has  selected  for  them.  What  in- 
deed  should  the  poet  do,  if  he  had  not  virtue  in  him- 
self to  mould  according  to  his  will  the  language  in 
which  his  thoughts  are  to  live  ]  as  the  fish  in  the 
convoluted  shell  shapes  its  dwelling  by  the  motion 
of  its  body  within. 

"  Will  you  play  upon  this  pipe  V  says  Hamlet  to 
Guildenstern. — "I  cannot,  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my 
lord,"  replies  the  courtier. — '"Tis  as  easy  as  lying," 
retorts  the  satirical  prince  ;  "  govern  these  ventages 
Willi  your  fingers  and  thumb;  give  it  breath  with 
your  mouth,  and  it  will  discourse  most  eloquent 
■msic:  look  ye,  these  are  the  stops." — "But  these 


138  THE    DICTION    OK    POETRY. 

cannot  1  command  to  any  utterance  of  harmony ;  1 
have  no  skill,"  is  the  humble  confession  of  the  other. 
Thus  the  melodies  of  the  pipe  must  be  the  result  of 
the  piper's  employment  of  its  capabilities,  which 
each  who  tries  will  variously  bring  out.  It  is  a  small 
thing  that  the  fiddle  is  a  genuine  Cremona,  and  the 
warranted  workmanship  of  Straduarius  ;  every  hand 
that  draws  a  bow  across  it  will  produce  every  note 
unlike  every  other  performer,  according  to  his  skill 
in  fingering,  and  the  "  music  in  his  soul ;" — from  the 
crude  scraping  of  "some  blind  cro  wder  in  the  streets," 
to  the  tones  of  anguish  or  ecstasy  which  Paganini, 
with  touches  like  the  first  beam.s  of  sunlight  on  the 
statue  of  Memnon,  elicits  from  the  strings ;  or  extorts 
when  he  strikes  and  they  shriek  as  though  he  were 
putting  live  sufferers  to  the  sword. 

What  the  pipe  and  the  viol  are  to  the  minstrel,  his 
native  tongue  is  to  the  poet.  The  finest  instruments 
are  dumb  till  those  harmonies  are  put  into  them,  of 
which  they  can  be  no  more  than  the  passive  conduct- 
ors. Language,  in  like  manner,  is  a  dead  letter  till 
the  spirit  within  the  poet  himself  breathes  through 
it,  gives  it  voice,  and  makes  it  audible  to  the  very 
mind.  The  powers  of  any  language,  therefore,  are 
put  to  proof  just  in  proportion  to  the  powers  of  the 
author  himself  who  composes  in  it.  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  and  Wordsworth,  Burke,  .Tohnson,  and  Junius, 
among  numberless  others,  have  each  done  with  our 
English  what  none  ever  did  before  him ;  and  there 
are  abundant  capabilities  in  it  yet  undiscovered. 
What  great  master  shall  next  bring  a  few  more  of 
them  forth  with  equal  conspicuity  1  Nor  need  they 
be  far  sought ;  they  lie  along  the  highway  of  litera- 
ture ;  they  are  the  granite  materials  of  v/hich  the 
road  is  made.  Lord  Byron  affected  the  frequent 
use  of  quaint,  obsolete,  and  outlandish  terms ;  and 
Ijy  this  artifice,  no  doubt,  he  occasionally  rendered 
his  style  botii  gorgeous  and  venerable.  But  his 
fl.'if'f  strength  lay  in  a  despotic  command  over  the 


THK     DICTION'    OF    I'OE  FRY.  139 

most  ordinary  forms  of  speech.  He  has  done  more 
for  common  tvords  than  Dryden  himself  did  ;  and  the 
energy  with  which  he  employs  them  is  the  most 
remarkable,  as  well  as  the  most  exemplary,  character- 
istic of  his  style  in  his  best  productions, — such  as 
the  third  and  fourth  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pil- 
grimage." 

Without  any  reference  to  the  merits  or  faults  of 
the  following  stanzas,  ihey  will  strikingly  exhibit 
the  power  of  high  pressure  which  the  noble  writer 
could  put  in  force  to  multiply  thoughts  with  words, 
and  so  condense  them  that  scarcely  one  of  the  latter 
could  be  withdrawn  without  extinguishing  one  of  the 
former.  In  the  storm  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  he 
thus  breaks  out : — 

"  Sky,  mountains,  rivers,  winds,  lake,  lightnings ! — Ye, 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeUng ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless — if  I  rest. 
*  *  ■}.-  *  * 

"  Could  I  imbociy  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  witliin  me — could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings  strong  or  weak. 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe, — into  one  word 
And  that  one  word  were  ligluning,  I  would  speak  ! — 
But  as  it  is  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword." 

I  conclude  with  an  admirable  illustration  of  this 
ill-understood  subject,  by  a  critic  of  no  ordinary  tact, 
which  may  be  found  in  an  article  on  "  Todd's  Milton," 
in  the  Quarterly  Review,  No.  xxxvi. : — 

"  Let  us  not  hear  a  polished  language  blamed  for 
the  defects  of  those  who  know  not  how  to  put  it 
forth.  It  must  be  wielded  by  the  master  before  its 
true  force  can  be  knov/n.  The  Philippics  of  De- 
tnosthenes  were  pronounced  in  the  mother  tongue 
of  every  one  of  his  audience  ;  but  who  among  them 


J40       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

could  have  answered  him  in  a  sinsle  sentence  hke 
his  own  1  Who  among  them  could  have  guessed 
what  Greek  could  do,  though  they  had  spoken  it 
all  their  lives,  till  they  heard  it  from  his  lips  "?  Tht 
secret  of  using  language  is,  to  use  it  from  a  fidl 
mindy 


LECTURE  V. 

VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POETRY. 

Narrative  Poetry. 

Lord  Bacon  distinguishes  poetry  under  three 
heads :  Narrative,  Dramatic,  and  Parabolic.  To 
these  may  be  added  a  fourth,  Miscellaneous,  compre- 
hending one  half  of  the  verse  that  is  written,  and 
which  can  hardly  be  said  to  come  under  any  denom- 
ination less  general.  Without  particular  reference 
to  these  distinctions,  I  shall  briefly  notice  several  of 
the  principal  classes  of  poetry,  according  to  the 
limits  which  must  not  here  be  exceeded. 

Narrative  poetry  embraces  all  the  varieties  of  me- 
trical story-telling,  from  the  lofty  epic  to  the  lowly 
ballad.  In  these  (according  to  the  license  of  fiction) 
the  author — knowing  every  thing  that  he  chooses  to 
know,  and  being  privy  to  the  inmost  thoughts  as 
well  as  the  outward  acts  of  his  heroes — discloses  to 
his  reader  (like  one  invisible  being  holding  converse 
with  another)  the  entire  circumstances  of  ai!  the 
events,  single  or  in  series,  which  he  feigns  or  bor- 
rows. He  thus  makes  his  fable,  as  it  is  called,  more 
complete  through  all  its  bearings  tlian  any  series  of 
facts  can  be  rendered,  from  the  necessary  imperfec- 
tion of  human  testinuuiv.  the  difficnltv  of  discover- 


VARIOUS  CLASSKS  OF  POKTKY        141 

ing,  by  coiiting'ent  evidence  more  than  has  been  ver 
bally  recorded  of  any  thing-  that  is  past,  and  the  iin- 
possibiHty  of  ever  recoverinjGf  the  memory  of  what 
has  once  been  lost — absolutely  lost.  For  example. 
— of  the  history  of  Rome  nothing  more  can  be  known 
at  any  future  time  but  what  is  extant  at  this  hour  in 
the  relics  of  contemporary  writers,  or  their  suc- 
cessois,  who  have  preserved  what  otherwise  v/ould 
have  perished  with  the  originals.  Buried  among  the 
ruins  of  Herculaneum,  or  under  the  dust  of  centuries 
in  monastic  libraries, — documents  containing  intelli- 
gence of  which  we  are  yet  ignorant  may  hereafter 
be  brought  to  light;  but  that  which  is  no  longer 
registered  on  earth,  though  it  may  have  decided  the 
destinies  of  empires,  is  to  us,  in  these  later  ages,  the 
same  as  though  it  never  had  been.  The  quantity 
of  error,  conjecture,  and  misrepresentation  which 
abound  in  the  early  chronicles  of  all  nations,  and  are 
not  easily  separable  from  those  of  the  most  enlight- 
ened periods,  cause  history  to  be,  at  best,  a  dubious 
authority  to  follow  in  its  precedents  for  the  conduct 
of  either  statesmen  or  philosophers. 

Leo  X.  convjeived  the  magnificent  idea  of  forming 
a  model  of  the  .2iiy  of  Rome,  as  it  stood  in  its  glory, 
from  a  survey  of  the  ruins  of  its  palaces,  temples, 
and  amphitheatres,  as  they  remained  at  his  own  day  ; 
according  to  the  style  of  each  relic  filling  up  the 
elevation  of  the  original  structure.  This  task  he 
committed  to  Raphael,  who  ardently  undertook  it, 
but  died  on  the  threshold  of  that  renovated  Rome, 
which  thereafter  fell  into  less  reparable  decay  than 
its  ancient  prototype.  Mr.  Roscoe  informs  us  that 
the  great  artist  presented  a  memorial  to  the  pontiflf 
on  this  project,  accompanied  by  a  drawing  of  an 
entire  edifice,  completed  according  to  the  rules 
which  he  had  laid  down  for  the  development  of  the 
whole.*     What  Raphael's  memorial  and  specimen 

*  Raphael,  in  this  rnetnorial,  observes,  "Havms  been  commissioned 
by  your  holine»s  to  make  a  dasigii  of  ancien?  Ror.iii  lo  fir  as  it  can  b« 


142       VARIOUS  CLA8SKS  OF  POKTRY. 

were  to  Rome  under  Augustus,  history  and  its  illus- 
trations are  to  any  given  series  of  events  ;  being  only 
more  or  less  imperfect  in  proportion  as  the  dilnpi- 
dated  foundations,  solitary  columns,  and  mouldering 
Vv'alls  of  ancient  edifices  furnish  models  and  mate- 
rials for  raising  upon  them  theoretical  superstruc- 
tures to  represent  what  they  loere,  but  which  in 
reality  are  but  what  they  might  have  been.  I  would 
not  disparage  the  most  valuable  inheritance  be- 
queathed to  us  by  our  fathers  in  the  chronicles  and 
traditions  of  those  periods  in  which  they  lived.  But 
such  is  the  task  of  him  who  sits  down  to  compile  the 
annals  of  any  people  ;  out  of  their  ruins  he  has  to 
build  their  monuments.  And  as  "  the  poetical"  of 
Greek  and  Roman  architecture  has  alone  survived, 
in  fallen  temples  and  palaces,  while  the  mere 
"  prose,"  in  the  masonry  of  vulgar  dwellings,  has 
been  utterly  obliterated, — so,  in  the  most  perfect 
history,  wrecks  of  magnificence  only  are  preserved  ; 
and  of  these  the  principal  portions  have  been  so  dis- 
figured by  fable,  or  embellished  by  romance,  that  the 
lessons  of  Time  (the  slowest  of  teachers,  and  who 
ought  to  be  the  surest,  did  not  his  memory  so  much 
fail  him)  are  defective  in  main  parts  of  the  argument 
from  default  of  unadulterated  or  unmutilated  facts  ; 
so  that  the  inferences,  however  wise  and  salutary, 
to  be  derived  from  what  is  presented  as  the  fruit  of 
experience  are  proportionately  unimpressive  and 
unsatisfactory.  But  Time  is  rather  the  preceptor  of 
man,  his  coeval,  than  of  meyi,  his  offsprmg.  Hia 
schools  are  communities,  which  he  instructs  not  so 
much  by  details  as  by  the  gradual  evolution  of  great 
results  out  of  the  infinite  multiplicity  of  small  cir- 
cumstances that  make  up  the  business  of  individual 

discovered  in  what  now  remains,  with  all  the  edifices  of  which  such 
ruins  yet  aitpear  as  rnay  enable  tis  infallibly  to  ascertain  what  they  ori- 
ginally were,  and  lo  supply  such  parts  as  have  been  wholly  destroyed, 
by  making  them  correspond  with  those  that  yet  exist ;  I  have  used  every 
possible  exertion,  that  I  might  give  yon  full  satisfaction,  and  convey  a 
perfect  idea  on  the  subject  " 


VAUIOrS    CLASSES    OF     I'OF.TRV.  143 

life.  Witli  him,  therefore,  a  lesson  which  takes  less 
than  a  century  in  the  delivery,  is  scarcely  inteUigi- 
ble ;  for  the  issue  of  a  day  may  require  an  age  to 
develop  it.  The  battle  of  Waterloo  in  a  few  hours 
not  only  put  an  end  to  the  wars  of  the  French  revo- 
lution, but  was  itself  the  first  scene  of  a  new  drama 
in  the  theatre  of  Europe,  which  will  probably  employ 
the  actors  of  many  generations  to  carrj^  on,  before 
an  equally  decisive  catastrophe  shall  again  turn  the 
current  of  history  at  a  right  angle  (so  to  speak)  from 
the  course  into  which  that  victory  of  our  countrymen 
diverted  it. 

Hence  the  lessons  of  poetic  narrative  maybe  re-n- 
dered  more  perfect,  as  well  as  more  interesting,  than 
those  of  the  most  authentic  history,  because  the  prem- 
ises from  which  the  former  is  to  be  drawn  may  be 
exactly  fitted  to  the  purpose  of  exemplifying  and 
enforcing  the  instruction  intended.  "  The  Iliad" 
contained  all  that  had  been  learned  from  the  practice 
of  war  through  all  ages  antecedent.  In  the  "  Geru- 
salemme  Liberata"  of  Tasso  are  summed  up  all  the 
glories  and  horrors  of  the  crusades.  In  "  Paradises 
Lost"  we  have  the  theological  history  of  the  world. 
At  the  same  time,  it  would  be  aflfectation  to  assume, 
that  the  few  unrivalled  epic  poems  have  been  com- 
posed, primarily,  for  any  other  reason  than  because 
the  themes  appeared  to  the  authors  capable  of  exer- 
cising their  genius,  and  displaying  their  powers  of 
invention  and  embellishment  to  the  highest  advan- 
tage. The  conceit  of  Bossu,  that  the  great  masters 
of  antiquity  first  fixed  upon  a  moral,  and  then  sough* 
a  story  to  illustrate  it,  is  as  pure  a  fictioij  as  any  tc 
be  found  in  the  Odyssey  itself.  Virgil's  ^Eneid  has 
been  especially  insisted  on  in  proof  of  this  pedantic 
hypothesis;  and  we  have  been  gravely  told,  that. 
•'  there  are  two  distinct  objects  to  be  kept  in  view  in 
the  conduct  of  a  narrative  poem,  the  one  poetical^ 
the  other  moral ;  the  poetical  being  the  fictitious  ac- 
tion, and  the  moral  the  real  design  of  the  poem 


144  VAUIOIOS    CLASSES    OF    PoETRY. 

Thus  Yirsii  wrote  and  felt  like  a  subject,  not  like  a 
citizen.  The  real  design  of  his  poem  was  to  increase 
the  veneration  of  the  people  for  a  master,  whoever 
he  might  be,  and  to  encourage,  like  Homer,  the  great 
system  of  military  despotism."  These  are  the  no- 
tions of  the  republican  Joel  Barlow,  in  his  preface 
to  the  strangest  epic  composition  ever  issued  from 
the  press,—"  The  Columbiad."  It  is  true,  both  to 
the  honour  and  the  shame  of  poets,  that  in  following 
the  impulse,  we  might  say  the  instinct,  of  their 
genius, — when  it  has  been  possible  to  serve  their 
country  or  their  own  interest,  they  have  often 
availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity  ;  but  it  is  yet 
more  obvious  that  poets  write,  in  the  first  place  (if 
we  may  so  express  it),  for  the  very  love  of  the 
thing;  and  in  the  second,  from  the  love  of  fame. 
Will  any  man  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  believe 
that  Virgil's  ''real  object"  in  composing  the  ^neid 
was  "  to  increase  the  veneration  of  the  people  to  a 
master]"  Nay,  vv^ould  any  man  in  his  senses  on 
either  side  of  the  Atlantic  doubt  that  his  "-real  ob- 
ject" was  to  immortalize  his  own  name  ]  and  that, 
in  choosing  his  theme,  he  suited  it  to  the  times  and 
government  under  which  he  lived,  because  he  judged 
that  he  should  thus  more  immediatel}'^  and  effectually 
promote  his  ov/n  glory]  Conscious  of  his  powers, 
would  Virgil  have  hazarded  the  reversion  of  renown 
that  awaited  him  with  posterity,  for  the  favour  of 
Augustus]  No,  not  for  the  throne  of  Augustus. 
They  know  little  of  the  character  of  poets  of  this 
class  who  thus  judge  of  them.  Had  Virgil  planned 
liis  iEneid  as  "  a  subject,"  he  v/ould  never  have  exe- 
cuted it  as  a  poet,  for  it  is  the  spirit  in  which  the 
c/ffspring  of  imagination  is  conceived  that  becomes 
the  life  of  it  when  produced  into  being. 

Tlie  dogma  of  Warburton  is  equally  gratuitous, 
that  *'The  Iliad"  being  a  moral,  "The  yEneid"  a 
political,  and  the  "  Paradise  Lost"  a  religious  poem, 
all  improvement  of  tlie  epofyfe  is  at  an  end,  since 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POKTRY.        145 

every  subject  fit  for  heroic  verse  may  be  considered 
in  a  moral,  d  political,  or  a  religious  point  of  view ! 
If  the  three  epics  here  named  have  indeed  the  three 
characteristics  attributed  to  them, — which  may  be 
doubted, — these  are  mere  contingencies, or  accidents 
of  the  stories  respectively,  and  were  very  subordi- 
nate considerations  with  the  poets  themselves. 
Practical  inferences  might  indeed  be  deduced  from 
the  most  extravagant  of  the  Metamorphoses  of 
Ovid,  but  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  marvellous 
fable,  not  for  the  meager  moral,  that  one  or  another 
subject  was  chosen,  and  for  the  adorning  of  which 
that  poet  wearied,  yet  never  exhausted,  the  resources 
of  a  fancy  fertile  beyond  comparison  in  certain  me- 
chanical combinations  of  ideal  imagery,  as  diverse 
and  grotesque  as  the  transmutations  of  bodies  which 
they  shadow  forth. 

Allegorical  Poetry. 

Yet,  sometimes  interwoven  with  the  epic  narra- 
tive, and  sometimes  employed  alone  in  the  parabolic 
form,  there  has  ever  been  a  favourite  species  of 
poetry,  in  which  the  moral  was  avowedly  the  foun- 
dation, and  the  fable  the  superstructure.  Most  of 
the  mythological  traditions  of  Greece  and  Rome 
were,  in  their  origin,  of  this  kind;  but  such  is  the 
caprice  of  public  taste,  or  perhaps  the  perversity  of 
human  nature,  that  the  further  these  compositions 
departed  from  their  original  character,  the  more 
pleasing  and  popular  they  became.  At  length  the 
poetical  features  alone  were  regarded,  and  the  les- 
sons inculcated  were  wilfully  made  as  undecipher- 
able as  those  which  are  at  once  preserved  and  hidden 
under  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt.  The  tales  of 
chivalry  and  romance  of  the  Italian  poets  were  pro- 
fessedly of  the  same  cast ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  false 
pretences  of  the  writers  themselves  (having  the  fear 
of  the  Inquisition  before  their  eyes),  the  grave 
M 


146       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

labours  of  their  commentators  to  spiritualize  the 
profligate  pages  of  Ariosto,  and  wring  out  orthodox 
divinity  from  the  purer  fictions  of  Tasso,  have  suc- 
ceeded no  better  than  the  ingenious  experiments  of 
the  philosopher  who  attempted  to  draw  sunbeams 
from  cucumbers. 

The  noblest  allegorical  poem  in  our  own  language, 
— indeed,  the  noblest  allegorical  poem  in  the  world, 
— is  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene  ;"  at  the  same  time, 
it  is  probable,  that  if  it  had  not  been  allegorical  at 
all,  it  v/ould  have  been  a  far  more  felicitous  and 
attractive  work  of  imagination.  In  all  allegories  of 
length  we  grow  dull  as  the  story  advances,  and  feel 
very  little  anxiety  about  the  conclusion,  except  for 
its  own  sake,  as  the  conclusion.  Beautiful  and  diver- 
sified as  the  most  perfect  of  these  "  unsubstantial 
pageants"  may  be,  few  readers,  when  they  lay  one 
down,  are  sorry  that  it  is  finished ;  and  most  minds, 
in  recalling  the  pleasure  of  its  perusal,  dwell  upon 
those  scenes  that  nearest  resemble  reality,  and  rumi- 
nate on  the  rest  as  half-recollected  images  of  a  wild 
and  exhausting  dream,  from  which  they  are  not 
sorry  at  being  awakened  to  ordinary  sights  and 
sounds,  however  entranced  they  may  have  been 
while  the  illusion  lasted.  This  is  the  inevitable 
effect  of  allegories, — they  never  leave  the  impression 
of  truth  behind.  In  noble  fictions,  where  truth, 
though  not  told  in  the  letter,  is  maintained  in  the 
spirit,  it  is  far  otherwise.  We  rise  from  the  narra- 
tive of  the  death  of  Hector,  and  the  visit  of  Priam 
by  night  to  the  lent  of  Achilles,  as  from  reading 
historical  facts  ;  our  feelings  are  precisely  the  same 
as  they  would  have  been  were  those  circumstances 
authejitic.  In  Milton's  wonderful  poem,  though  our 
judgment  is  never  deceived  into  a  belief  of  their 
having  actually  taken  place,  the  conversations  be- 
tween Ad;im  and  Eve,  and  their  interview  with 
Raphael,  the  affable  archangel,  have  all  the  warmth 


VARIOUS  CLASSE?  OF  POETRY.       147 

of  life  within-  and  all  U'     daylig-ht  of  reality  about 
them. 

In  avowed  allec^ory  we  can  rarely  forget  that  the 
personages  never  did,  and  never  could,  exist;  nor 
that  both  personages  and  scenes  represent  soinethinj^ 
else,  and  not  themselves.  When  we  give  over  read- 
ing, all  curiosity  and  interest  cease ;  we  can  have 
no  personal  interest  in  such  phantoms,  and  we  suffer 
no  regret  when  they  are  vanished  ;  they  came  like 
shadows,  and  so  they  departed.  If  ever  allegorical 
characters  excite  either  sympathy  or  affection,  it  is 
when  we  lose  the  idea  that  they  are  such  ;  conse- 
quently, when  the  allegory  itself  is  suspended  with 
regard  to  them. 

Again,  in  allegory,  the  mind  naturally  expects 
wonders  in  continual  succession,  and  is  greatly  dis- 
appointed if  ihey  do  not  occur  so  frequently  as  to 
destroy  their  own  effect, — defeat  the  very  purpose 
for  which  wonders  are  wrought.  Where  all  is  mar- 
vellous, nothing  is  so.  Besides,  with  unbounded 
license  to  do  any  thing  or  every  thing,  there  is  no 
sphere  of  invention  so  limited  as  this,  to  the  most 
creative  genius;  the  sources  of  mere  fiction  are 
soon  exhausted,  those  of  fact  never.  Hence  there 
is  a  wearisome  sameness  and  repulsive  formality 
(like  court  etiquette)  in  most  productions  of  this 
class.  Who  is  not  sick  of  queens  and  goddesses, 
in  their  palaces  and  temples,  with  their  trains  of 
attendants,  their  nymphs,  and  their  worshippers,  in 
almost  every  dream  of  the  Spectator  and  Tattler, 
and  the  endless  imitations  of  them  since  ?  Who 
does  not  turn  with  absolute  contempt  from  the 
rings,  and  gems,  and  filters,  and  caves,  and  genii 
of  Eastern  Tales  (falsely  so  called),  as  from  the 
trinkets  of  a  toyshop,  and  the  trumpery  of  a  raree- 
show  ? 

There  is  no  long  allegory  in  our  literature  at  all 
comparable  to  Buiiyan's  "Pilgrim's  Progress;"  and 
one  principal  reason  why  this  is  the  niost  delightful 


148       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

Ihinir  of  the  kind  in  the  world  is,  that,  thoug^h 
"written  under  the  similitude  of  a  dream,"  there  is 
very  little  of  pure  alleg-ory  in  it,  and  few  abstract 
quahties  or  passions  are  personified.  From  the 
very  constitution  of  the  latter,  the  reader  almost 
certainly  foresees  what  such  typical  beings  will  say, 
suffer,  or  do,  accordins:  to  the  circumstances  in 
wfiich  they  are  placed.  The  issue  of  every  trial,  of 
every  contest,  is  known  as  soon  as  the  action  is  com- 
menced. The  characters  themselves  are  all  neces- 
sarily imperfect,  and,  according  to  the  law  of  their 
nature,  nmst  be  in  everlasting  motion,  or  everlast- 
ingly at  rest;  always  rejoicing,  or  always  weeping; 
infallibly  good,  or  incorrigibly  bad.  In  short,  the 
arms  and  legs  of  men,  the  wings  and  tails  of  animals 
— nay,  the  five  senses  themselves  (as  indeed  they 
have  been) — might  as  well  be  clothed  with  flesh  and 
blood,  and  brought  into  dramatic  action,  as  most  of 
the  creatures  of  imagination  that  figure  away  in 
allegory. 

Dramatic  Poetry. 

The  dramatic  form  of  poetry  is  so  near  an  approach 
to  the  language  and  intercourse  of  real  life,  as,  when 
skilfully  constructed,  to  imply  all  the  actions  exhib- 
ited on  the  stage  to  the  eye,  through  the  words  ad- 
dressed to  tie  ear,  by  the  conversation  of  tlie  per- 
sons, in  the  course  of  the  scene.  The  opening  of 
the  first  act  of  Hamlet  will  most  admirably  illustrate 
this.  Horatio  and  Marcellus  join  the  seniineis 
Francisco  and  Be.i  ardo,  at  night,  on  the  platform 
before  the  castle  of  Elsinore.  There  is  bodily  mo- 
tion expressed  or  indicated  in  everyone  of  the  brief 
challenires  and  responses  between  the  parties,  which 
being  closed,  Horatio  inquires, — 

'*  What,  has  this  thing appeai'd  again  to-night? 


VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POETRV  149 

BERNARDO 


I  havi^  seen  nothmg. 

MARCELLUS. 

Horatio  says,  'tis  but  our  phantasy, 

And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him, 

Tonchuiijf  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  u«; 

Therefore  1  iiave  entreated  iiim,  along 

With  us  to  watch  the  inmutes  of  this  night; 

That  if  again  tiiis  apparition  come, 

He  may  approve  our  eyes,  and  speak  to  it. 

HORATIO. 

TUsSh!  tush!  'twill  not  appear. 

BERNARDO. 

Sit  down  awhile; 
And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears. 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

HORATIO. 

Well,  sit  we  down, 
And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

BERNARDO. 

Last  night  of  all. 

When  yon  same  star  that's  westward  from  the  polfl^ 
Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Wh.ere  now  it  burns,  Marcellus  and  myself— 
The  bell  then  beating  one — 

MARCELLUS. 

Peace,  break  thee  off;  look,  where  it  comes  again* 

BERNARDO. 

In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that's  dead. 

MARCELLUS. 

Thou  art  a  scholar;  speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

HORATIO. 

Most  like  : — it  harrews  me  with  fear  and  wonder. 

BERNARDO.  • 

ft  would  be  spoke  to. 


150  VARIOUS    CJ,ASSKS    OF     POF.TRY. 

i'.ARCELLUS. 

Speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

HORATIO. 

What  an  thou,  that  usurp'st  this  time  of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 

In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

Did  sometime  march  ?— By  heaven,  I  cliarge  thee — speak 


MAECELLUS. 


It  is  offended. 


BERNARDO. 

See!  it  stalks  away. 

HORATIO. 

Stay  ;  speak ;  speak,  I  charge  thee,  speak. 

MARCELLUS. 

'Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer." 

Here  every  line  is  alive  with  action.,  as  -w  ell  aa 
voice,  to  communicate  in  every  clause  fresh  intel- 
ligence of  the  feelings  of  the  speakers,  and  tc  bnng 
out  their  individual  characters;  but,  above  jll,  to 
intimate  in  the  simplest  manner  those  awakening 
circumstances  of  the  tragic  story  about  to  be  de- 
veloped, with  the  time,  place,  and  manner  of  its 
occurrence,  which  are  calculated  to  prepare  the 
mind  of  the  reader  or  spectator  for  the  sequel.  It 
is  remarkable,  that  in  tlie  progress  of  more  than 
forty  interlocutions,  involving  four  distinct  scenes, 
by  the  change  of  persons,  within  lessthnn  fourscore 
lines  from  the  opening  of  this  play,  there  is  no 
necessity  for  a  single  stage  direction  :  every  look, 
att.tude,  and  movement  of  the  six  characters  (includ- 
ing the  ghost)  being  so  infallibly  indicated,  that  not 
tilt!  mimitest  piirticle  which  Ciin  give  poetic  or  pic- 
turesque effect  to  the  reality  of  the  spectncle  is 
omitted.  *  This  is  the  consummation  of  dramatic  urt> 
hiding  itself  behind  the  unveiled,  form  of  nature. 


VARIOUS    CI.ASSKS    OF     I'Or.TIiV.  151 

The  foregoiitg  illustration  is  all  that  the  limits  of 
these  Essays  will  allow  on  the  subject  of  theatrical 
entertainments.  Of  the  morality  of  the  stage  I  have 
nothing  to  say,  except  that,  in  proportion  as  the 
style  of  dramatic  composition  has  been  purified,  the 
talent  displayed  by  writers,  in  what  oui^ht  to  be  at 
once  the  most  directly  moral  and  constitutionally 
sublime  species  of  verse,  has  become  less  and  less 
conspicuous.  Without  disparagement  either  to  vir 
tue  or  genius,  sufficient  reasons  might  be  assigned 
for  such  an  anomaly, — but  this  is  not  the  fit  occasion 
for  explaining  them.  With  a  few  honourable  excep- 
tions,— among  v/hich  may  be  named  the  tragedies 
of  Miss  Mitford  and  Mr.  Sheridan  Knowles, — the 
efforts  of  our  contemporaries  in  this  field  have  been 
less  successful  in  deservingsuccess,  than  in  any  other 
walk  of  polite  literature.  I  refer  solely  to  acting 
plays.  Mrs.  Joanna  Baillie,  the  Rev.  H.  Milman, 
the  Rev.  G.  Croly,  Messrs.  Coleridge,  Sotheby,  and 
some  others,  have  written  tragedies  for  the  miiid 
and  the  heart,  which  rank  among  the  noblest  pro- 
ductions of  the  age. 

A  very  different  judgment  must  be  passed  on  the 
dramas  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 
Most  of  these,  notwithstanding  the  treasures  of 
poetry  buried  in  them,  have  been  abandoned  to  an 
obscurity  as  ignominious  as  oblivion,  on  account  of 
their  atrocious  piofligacy:  like  forsaken  mines,  no 
longer  worked,  thoug-h  their  veins  are  rich  with  ore, 
because  of  the  mephitic  air  that  fouls  their  passages, 
and  which  no  safety-lamp  yet  invented  can  render 
innoxious  to  the  most  intrepid  virtue.  It  is  griev- 
ous to  think  that  so  many  of  the  most  powerful 
minds  that  ever  were  sent  into  this  world  to  beau- 
tify and  bless  mankind,  like  morning  stars  with  love- 
liest light,  or  vernal  rains  with  healing  influence, 
should  have  been  perverted  from  their  course  into 
malignant  luminaries,  or  from  their  purpose  into 
sour,  cold  mildews,  blighting  and  blastiiiL''  tiie  earth 


152       VARIOUS  CLASSKS  OF  POETRY. 

and  its  inhabitants,  so  far  as  their  evil  beams  could 
strike,  or  their  deadly  drops  could  fall.  It  is  true 
that  they  represented  man  as  he  was, — not  as  he 
ought  to  have  been ;  not  as  he  might  have  been — 
had  poets  always  done  their  duty,  and  exhibited  vice 
as  vice,  and  virtue  as  virtue,  instead  of  making  each 
wear  the  disguise  of  the  other;  associating  valour 
wit,  generosity,  and  other  splendid  qualities,  with 
earthly,  sensual,  devilish  appetites  and  passions  • 
whereby  the  multitude,  who  possessed  none  of  these 
brilliant  endowments,  were  confirmed  in  their  be- 
loved vices  i  while  those  who  were  constitutionally 
or  affectedly  gallant,  facetious,  and  affable  were 
induced  to  imagine,  that,  with  these  holyday  virtues, 
they  might  indulge  in  the  grossest  propensities,  and 
hold  in  contempt— as  allied  to  meanness,  pusillan- 
imity, and  hypocrisy  whatever  is  pure,  lovely,  and 
of  good  report  in  woman,  or  meek,  self-denying, 
self-sacrificing  in  man. 

Religious  Poetry. 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  Life  of  Waller,  says, — "It 
has  been  the  frequent  lamentation  of  good  men,  that 
verse  has  been  too  little  applied  to  the  purposes  of 
worship ;  and  many  attempts  have  been  made  to 
animate  devotion  by  pious  poetry:  that  they  have 
seldom  obtained  their  end  is  sufficiently  known,  and 
it  may  not  be  improper  to  inquire  why  they  have 
miscarried.  Let  no  pious  ear  be  offended  if  I  ad- 
vance, in  opposition  to  many  authorities,  that  poeti- 
cal devotion  cannot  often  please.  ******** 
The  essence  of  poetry  is  invention  ;  such  invention 
as,  by  producing  something  unexpected,  surprises  and 
delights.  The  topics  of  devotion  are  few  ;  and  being 
few,  are  universally  known ;  but,  few  as  they  are, 
thev  can  be  made  no  more  ;  they  can  receive  no 
grace  from  nov{dty  of  sentiment,  and  very  little  from 
novelty  of  exfression.      Poetiv  i)lea.scs  by  exliibiting 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POKTRV.        153 

an  idea  more  g^rateful  to  tlie  mind  than  the  thinc^s 
themselves  afford.  This  effect  proceeds  from  the 
display  of  those  parts  in  nature  which  attract,  and 
tlie  concealment  of  those  thai  repel  the  imagina- 
tion; but  reli2:ion  must  be  shown  as  it  is;  suppres- 
sion and  addition  equally  corrupt  it ;  and  such  as  it 
is,  it  is  known  already.  From  poetry  the  reader 
justly  expects,  and  from  good  poetry  always  obtains, 
the  enlargement  of  his  comprehension  and  the  ele- 
vation of  his  fancy  ;  but  this  is  rarely  to  be  hoped 
by  Christians  from  metrical  devotion.  Whatever  is 
great,  desirable,  or  tremendous  is  comprised  in  the 
name  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Omnipotence  cannot 
be  exalted  ;  infinity  cannot  be  amplified  ;  perfection 
cannot  be  improved.  *****  Of  sentiments  purely 
religious,  it  will  be  found  that  the  most  sitnple  ex- 
pression is  the  most  sublime.  Poetry  loses  its  lustre 
and  its  power,  because  it  is  applied  to  the  decora- 
tion of  something  more  excellent  than  itself.  All 
that  pious  verse  can  do  is  to  help  the  memory  and 
delight  the  ear ;  and  for  these  purposes  it  may  be 
very  useful ;  but  it  supplies  nothing  to  the  mind. 
The  ideas  of  Christian  theology  are  too  simple  for 
eloquence,  too  sacred  for  fiction,  and  too  majestic 
for  ornament :  to  recommend  them  by  tropes  and 
figures  is  to  magnify  by  a  concave  mirror  the  si- 
dereal hemisphere." 

Having,  in  the  Introductory  Essay  to  a  volume  of 
Sacred  Poetry,*  minutely  examined  the  long  and,  I 
may  say,  the  celebrated  argument  of  which  the  fore- 
going is  but  an  abstract,  I  shall  not  go  into  particu- 
lars here  to  prove  the  mistake  under  which  the  great 
critic  labours  ;  but  I  may  briefly  remark,  that  the 
more  this  dazzling  passage  is  examined,  the  more 
indistinct  and  obscure  it  becomes  (according  to  the 
true  test  of  truth  itself,   as  laid  down  in  a  former 

*  "  The  Christian  Poet,  or  Selections  in  Verse  on  SacrcJ  Subjerts," 
by  Juries  Monti^omery :  published  by  W  Collins,  Glas^row ;  ;ind  Whit 
i&y  •   tandon. 


154  VAfaoUS     (JLA8SK.S     OK    POLTRY. 

paper)  f  and  in  the  end  it  will  be  found  to  throw 
lit^ht  upon  a  shigle  point  only  of  the  question, — a 
point  on  which  there  was  no  darkness  before, — 
namely,  that  the  style  of  devotional  poetry  must  be 
suited  to  the  theme,  whether  that  be  a  subject  of 
piety  or  a  motive  to  piety. 

Those  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine  the 
passage  at  length  will  find  that  all  the  eloquent  dic- 
tation contained  in  it  affects  neither  argumentative, 
descriptive,  nor  narrative  poetry  on  sacred  themes 
as  exemplified  in  the  great  works  of  Milton,  Young, 
and  Cowper.  That  man  has  neither  ear,  nor  heart, 
nor  imagination  to  know  genuine  poesy,  and  to  enjoy 
its  sweetest  or  its  sublimest  influences,  who  can 
doubt  the  supremacy  of  sucli  passages  as  the  Song 
of  the  Angels  in  the  third,  and  the  Morning  Hymn 
of  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  fifth  book  of  "  Paradise 
Lost ;"  the  first  part  of  the  ninth  book  of  the  "  Night 
Thoughts  ;"  and  tlie  anticipation  of  millennial  bless- 
edness in  the  sixth  book  of  "  The  Task  ;"  yet  tiiese 
are  on  sacred  subjects,  and  these  are  religious 
poetry.  There  are  but  four  universally  and  per- 
manently popular  lo7ig  poems  in  the  English  lan- 
guage,—"  Paradise  Lost,"  "The  Night  Thoughts," 
"  The  Task,"  and  "  The  Seasons."  Of  these,  the 
ihree  former  are  decidedly  religious  in  their  charac- 
ter;  and  of  the  latter  it  may  be  said,  that  one  of  the 
greatest  charms  of  Thomson's  masterpiece  is  the 
pure  and  elevated  spirit  of  devotion  which  occasion- 
ally breathes  out  amid  the  reveries  of  fancy  and  the 
pictures  of  nature,  as  though  the  poet  had  caught 
sudden  and  transporting  glimpses  of  the  Creator 
himself  through  the  perspective  of  his  works;  while 
tV.e  crowning  Hymn,  at  the  close,  is  unquestionably 
one  of  the  most  magnificent  specimens  of  verse  in 
any  language,  and  only  inferior  to  the  inspired  pro- 
totypes in  the  Book  of  Psalms,  of  which  it  is,  for  the 

*  See  Lecture  II. 


vaimous   classk«   i;f    poktuv.  155 

most  part,  a  paraplirase. — As  much  may  be  &aid  of 
Pope's  "  Messiali,"  which  leaves  all  his  original  pro- 
ductions immeasurably  behind  it,  in  combined  ele- 
vation of  thought,  affluence  of  imagery,  beauty  of 
diction,  and  fervency  of  spirit. 

It  follov^s,  that  poetry  of  the  highest  order  may 
be  composed  on  pious  themes;  and  the  fact  that 
three  out  of  the  only  four  lonj^  poems  which  are  daily 
reprinted  for  every  class  of  readers  amona"  us,  are 
at  the  same  time  religious, — that  fact  ought  forever 
to  silence  the  cuckoo-note  which  is  echoed  from 
one  mocking-bird  of  Parnassus  to  another, — that 
poetry  and  devotion  are  incompatible  :  no  man  in 
his  right  mind,  who  knows  what  both  words  mean, 
will  admit  the  absurdity  for  a  moment.  1  have 
already  endeavoured  to  show*  that  gorgeous  orna- 
ment is  no  more  essential  to  verse  than  naked 
simplicity  is  essential  to  prose.  There  must,  there- 
fore, within  the  compass  of  human  language,  be  a 
style  suitable  for  "  contemplative  piety"  in  verse  as 
well  as  in  prose  ;  a  style  for  penitential  prayer  as 
well  as  for  holy  adoration  and  rapturous  thanksgiv- 
ing. If  nothing  can  be  poetry  which  is  not  elevated 
above  ordinary  speech  by  "  decorations  of  fancy, 
tropes,  figures,  and  epithets,"  many  of  the  finest 
passages  in  the  finest  poems  which  the  world  has 
ever  seen  must  be  outlawed,  and  branded  with  the 
ignominy  of  prose.  It  is  true  that  there  is  a  vast 
deal  of  religious  verse  which,  as  poetry,  is  utterly 
worthless;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  there  is  no 
small  portion  of  genuine  poetry  associated  with  pure 
and  imdefiled  religion  among  the  compositions  even 
of  oar  hymn-writers.  What  saith  Milton  on  "  the 
height  of  this  great  argument  V  Hear  him  in  p^-ose 
that  wants  nothing  but  numbers  to  equal  it  wdth  any 
page  in  "Paradise  Lost." 

"  These  abilities  are  the  inspired  gifts  of  God, 

♦  Se(?  Lecture  HI. 


150  VARIOUS    CI-ASSES    OF    POETRY. 

rarely  bestowed;  and  are  of  power  to  imbreed  and 
cherish  in  a  g-reat  peo[)le  the  seeds  of  virtue  and 
public  civility  ;  to  allay  the  perturbations  of  the  mind, 
and  set  the  affections  in  rii^ht  tune;  to  celebrate  in 
glorious  and  lofty  hymns  the  tlirone  and  equipage 
of  God's  almightiness,  and  what  he  works,  and  what 
he  suffers  to  be  wrouoht  with  high  providence  in 
his  church  ;  to  sing  victorious  agonies  of  martyrs 
and  saints,  the  deeds  and  triumphs  of  pious  nations 
doing  valiantly  through  faith  against  the  enemies  of 
Christ;  to  deplore  the  general  relapses  of  king- 
doms and  states  from  justice  and  God's  true  wor- 
ship. Lastly,  whatsoever  in  religion  is  holy  and 
sublime,  in  virtue  amiable  and  grave  ;  whatsoever 
hath  passion  or  admiration  in  all  the  changes  of 
that  which  is  called  fortune  from  without,  and  the 
wily  subtleties  and  refluxes  of  man's  thoughts  from 
within;  all  these  things,  with  a  solid  and  treatable 
smoothness,  to  paint  out  ?.nd  describe  : — teaching 
over  the  whole  book  of  sanctity  and  virtue,  through 
all  the  instances  of  example,  with  such  delight  to 
those  especially  of  soft  and  delicious  temper,  who 
will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  truth  herself,  unless 
they  see  her  elegantly  dressed  ;  whereas  the  paths 
of  honesty  and  good  life  appear  now  rugged  and 
difficult,  tliough  they  be  indeed  easy  and  pleasant, 
they  will  then  appear  to  all  men  easy  and  pleasant, 
though  they  were  rugged  and  difficult  indeed." — On 
Church  Government,  book  ii. 

The  art  of  which  this  is  a  true  description  must 
be  the  highest  of  all  arts,  and  require  the  greatest 
combination  of  fine  faculties  to  excel  in  it.  That 
art  is  poetry ;  and  the  special  subjects  on  which  it 
is  here  exhibited,  as  being  most  happily  employed, 
are  almost  entirely  sacred.  The  writer  is  Milton, 
who  in  his  subsequent  works  exemplified  all  the 
varieties  of  poetical  illustration  here  enumerated, 
and  justified  his  lofty  entimate  of  the  capabilities  of 
vcjsr*.   hallowed   to  divine  tliemos,    bv  the  success 


VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POFTRY.  157 

With  wliich  lie  celebrated  such  in  "  Paradise  Lost," 
"  Pa-adise  Regained,"  and  "  Samson  Agonistes." 
Not  anollier  word  can  be  necessary  to  refute  the 
notion  tiuit  relitrious  subjects  are  incapable  of  poetic 
treatment.  Dr.  Johnson  himself  says  nothing  of 
the  kind  ;  and  yet,  upon  his  authority  (from  a  mis- 
understanding of  two  passages  in  his  criticisms  on 
Waller  and  Watts),  this  notion  is  still  held  by  men 
who  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it. 

Didactic  and  Descriptive  Poetry. 

I  class  these  two  together,  because  poets  them- 
selves so  often  unite  them  ;  for  though  we  have 
abundance  of  pieces,  in  which,  if  "  pure  description 
holds  (not)  the  place  of  sense,"  but  occupies  its  own 
picturesque  position  with  independent  and  due  effect, 
yet  few  compositions  in  verse  can  be  purely  pre- 
ceptive, without  the  •'  aid  of  foreign  ornament ;"  nor 
can  it  be  literally  eaid  of  any  art  or  science,  thus 
handled,  that  its  "beauty"  is,  "when  unadorned, 
adorned  the  most."  It  must  be  arrayed  and  enriched 
with  extrinsic  graces,  or  renounce  all  pretensions 
to  attractiveness  from  the  poor  and  impolitic  use 
of  metre.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  didactic  poetry, 
that  for  the  purposes  of  teaching,  it  has  no  advan- 
tage over  prose ;  and,  in  fact,  from  the  difficulty  of 
adapting  the  elegances  of  verse  to  commonplace 
details,  it  often  falls  lamentably  short  of  common 
sense,  in  unnatural  attempts  to  convey  the  simplest 
meanings  in  bloated  verbiage.  Pure  directions  of 
any  ivind,  especially  on  technical  subjects,  may  be 
delivered  more  precisely  and  intelligibly  in  the  ordi- 
nary language  of  men,  diversified  v/ith  the  terms  of 
that  art  which  is  taught.  Every  specimen  of  this 
class,  from  the  days  of  Hesiod  to  those  of  the 
late  .Tames  Grahame — not  excepting  what  has  been 
deemed,  in  point  of  execution,  the  most  perfect  poem 
of  antiquity,  the  Georgics  of  Virgil, — every  speci- 


I5S  VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POETRY. 

men  of  this  class  establislies  the  truth,  or  rather  the 
truism,  above  laid  down. 

In  a  poem  on  airriculture,  it  is  self-evident,  d 
priori,  that  instructions  in  hedging,  ditching,  drain 
ing,  hay-making,  sowing,  reaping,  Szc.  can  assume 
little  or  nothing  of  poetry  beyond  the  shape  of 
rhythm  to  the  eye,  for  they  will  scarcely  admit  the 
sound  of  it  to  the  ear,  in  higher  harmony,  or  sweeter 
diction,  than  may  be  found  by  humming  and  counting 
the  fingers  over  old  Tusser's  "  Five  Hundred  Points 
in  Husbandrj^"  Lessons  on  manual  occupations, 
domestic  economy,  or  even  learned  pursuits  cannot 
alone  be  the  burthen  of  song,  or  it  will  soon  be  no 
song  at  all ;  for  with  "  music,  image,  sentiment, 
and  thought," — the  elements  of  poetry, — they  have 
no  affinity.  I  confine  the  remark  to  the  mstructions, 
because  the  things  themselves  may  sometimes  be 
made  highly  poetical  and  interesting ;  but  then 
they  cease  to  be  didactic,  and  become  descriptive. 
Thomson's  great  work,  with  a  few  precepts  inter- 
mmgled,  presents,  in  beautiful  series  and  harmo- 
nious connexion,  the  phenomena  of  nature,  and  the 
operations  of  man  contemporary  with  these,  through 
the  four  seasons ; — forming,  in  fact,  a  biographical 
memoir  of  the  infancy,  maturity,  and  old  age  of  an 
English  year. — Grahame,  in  his  "  British  Georgics," 
has  written  a  preceptive  ,poem,  in  which  similar 
subjects  are  included  ;  but  liere  the  lovely  and  mag-- 
nificent  appearances  of  nature  are  extraneons  em- 
bellishments, while  the  labours  of  the  farmer  (the 
Scotch  farmer),  mean  in  themselves,  are  daily  di- 
rected, and  occasionally  delineated,  according  to  the 
succession  of  months.  Between  the  plans  of  tlie 
two  poems  there  can  be  no  comparison,  and  between 
the  execution  1  will  make  none.  The  God  of 
nature  has  divided  the  year  into  several  distinct 
gradations,  hcwev(-r  obscurely  the  boundaries  of 
eacli  may  be  marked;  .'•o  that  everybody  has  clear 
and    fixed    ideas  of    spring,  summer,   autumn,  and 


VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POETRY.  159 

Winter,  from  personal  observation  of  the  varying 
surface  of  the  earth,  the  aspect  of  the  heavens,  the 
temperature  of  the  air,  and  those  employments  of 
the  husbandman  by  which  they  are  respectively 
characterized.  On  the  other  hand,  the  distribution 
of  the  year  into  months  is  an  arbitrary  arrangement 
by  man,  which  suits  the  almanac-maker  much 
better  than  the  poet.  The  phases  (if  we  must  use 
the  term)  of  June  and  July,  of  December  and  January. 
— indeed,  of  any  two  contiguous  months, — are  too 
little  diversified  to  admit  of  contrasted  pictures  of 
each,  witliout  producing  monotony  by  repetition,  or 
defect  by  omission,  of  those  features  whicli  happen 
to  be  common  to  both.  Indeed,  in  our  irregular  cli- 
mate, the  months  sometimes  seem  to  have  changed 
places,  particularly  in  the  earlier  half  of  the  year, 
the  advance  of  vegetation  being  far  less  undeviating 
than  its  decay.  Thomson's  is  a  descriptive  poem, 
interpolated  with  precepts  in  their  right  places  , 
Grahame's  is  a  preceptive  one,  in  which  descriptions 
luckily  superabound,  and  are  never  deemed  mis- 
placed :  for  without  them  its  pages  would  be  un- 
readable. Hence,  in  a  didactic  poem,  the  finest 
passages  are  those  which  are  ?w^ didactic;  branches 
bearing  flowers  and  fruit,  ingrafted  on  a  stock 
which,  of  itself,  would  put  forth  nothing  but  leaves. 

Grahame's  "  Sabbath,"  and  his  "  Birds  of  Scot- 
land," are  better  known  than  his  "  British  Georgics." 
His  taste  was  singular,  and  his  manner  correspond- 
ent. The  general  tenor  of  his  style  is  homely, 
and  frequently  so  prosaic  that  its  peculiar  graces 
appear  in  their  full  lustre  from  the  contrast  of 
meanness  that  surrounds  them.  His  readers  may 
be  few;  but  whoever  does  read  him  will  probably 
be  oftener  surprised  into  admiration,  than  in  the 
perusal  of  any  one  of  his  contemporaries.  The 
most  lively,  the  most  lovely  sketches  of  natural 
scenery,  of  minute' im;igery.  and  of  exquisite  inci- 
dent, unexpectedly  developed,  occur  in  his  compu 


160       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

sitions,  with  ever-varying-,  yet  ever-assimilating 
features.  All  his  beauties  are  of  one  kind ;  they 
have  a  family  likeness,  with  infinite  diversity  of  re- 
semblance. I  mean  those  beauties  which  most 
abound  in  him, — and  more  in  lam  than  in  any 
other  writer;  because,  by  the  bent  of  a  mind  pre- 
disposed to  a  particular  class  of  subjects,  and  with 
microscopic  accuracy  of  observation,  he  curiously 
and  constantly  searches  for  them  ;  while  his  breth- 
rei^  only  take  them  as  they  fall  in  their  way,  or  are' 
necessary  for  the  extraordinary  embellishment  of 
some  other  figure  to  which  they  are  subordinate. 
These  are  almost  exclusively  descriptive  ;  they  con- 
sist in  secondary  qualities,  and  remote  or  relative 
contingencies,  which,  by  unforeseen  association, 
place  an  object  in  a  novel  and  delightful  point  of 
view,  give  a  quick  and  happy  turn  to  a  train  of 
thought,  or  infuse  such  life  and  reality  into  a  scene, 
by  the  sudden  introduction  of  a  sprightly  image,  or 
an  affecting  circumstance,  that  the  reader  is  instantly 
converted  into  a  spectator  on  the  spot,  and  forgets 
the  poet,  the  poetry,  and  every  thing  except  the 
palpable  illusion  which,  for  the  moment,  captivates 
his  attention.  It  is  like  looking  down  into  a  con- 
cave mirror,  in  a  darkened  room,  when,  expecting 
to  see  our  own  features  reflected,  we  are  startled 
by  the  appearance  of  a  strange  countenance*  rising 
towards  us,  and  on  the  instant  are  completely  de- 
ceived. An  example  will  explain  this  better  than 
ten  periods  of  definition,  or  a  long  string  of  meta- 
phorical illustrations.  Take  the  picture  of  a  corn- 
stack,  from  the  "  British  Georgics." 

"  Of  forms  the  circular  is  most  approvea 
As  offering,  in  proportion  to  its  bulk, 
The  smallest  surface  to  the  storm's  assault. 
— To  turn  the  driving  rains,  the  outer  sheaves, 

*The  roun-tpnanre  of  a  person  placed  opposite,  without  our  know 
lodge,  anc  looking  into  the  mirror  at  the  same  time. 


Various   classks   of    pok.tuv.  101 

With  bottoms  lower  than  the  iiisthng  top, 
Should  i^loping  lie.     When,  to  the  crowning  sheaf 
Arrived,  distrust  tlie  sky  ;  the  thatch  lay  on, 
And  bind  with  strawy  coils.     O,  pleasant  sight ; 
These  lozenged  ropes,  that,  at  the  tapering  top, 
End  in  a  wisp-wound  pinnacle — a  gladsome  perch, 
On  which  already  sits  poor  Robin,  proud, 
And  sweetly  sings  a  song  to  harvest-home  !" 

In  these  lines,  nothing  can  be  more  dry  or  unen- 
tertaining  than  all  that  immediately  belongs  to  the 
subject:  but  just  when  the  reader  is  congratulating 
himself  that  the  paragraph  is  within  a  couplet 
of  the  close, — he  sees — he  hears — "  poor  Robin," 
perched  and  singing  on  the  twisted  pinnacle ;  and, 
instead  of  a  mere  recipe  to  make  a  corn-stack,  the 
bodily  image  of  one,  newly  thatched,  is  at  once 
placed  before  his  eye,  while  his  ear  is  regaled  with 
the  sweet  small  notes  of  the  bird  of  autumn. 

The  fashionable  as  well  as  the  familiar  poetry  of 
the  present  day  sparkles  with  fanciful  yet  true 
descriptions,  of  which  the  subjects  are,  in  general, 
among  the  most  obvious,  and  yet  the  least  noticed 
circumstances,  recurring  every  day,  and  every- 
where. The  brilliant  parterres  of  Miss  Landon's 
enclosure,  on  the  south  of  Parnassus,  where  ideas, 
like  humming-birds,  are  seen  flying  about  in  tropical 
sunshine,  or  fluttering  over  blossoms  of  all  hues  and 
all  climes  :  and  the  home  meadows  of  John  Clare, 
the  Northamptonshire  peasant,  whose  thoughts, 
like  bees,  are  ever  on  the  wing  in  search  of  honey 
from  "  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  ;"  are  equally 
productive  of  these  "  curiosities  of  literature."  A 
specimen  from  the  latter  (as  less  known  of  the  two) 
will  show  to  what  perfection  the  art  of  making  much 
of  a  little  has  lately  been  carried. 

THE   thrush's    nest. 

"  Withm  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush, 
That  overhung  a  mole-hill  large  a-nd  round, 
I  heard,  from  mom  to  mom,  a  merrv  thrush. 
Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drrwik  the  sound 

IV 


162  VARIOUS    CLASSKS     OF    POETRY* 

With  joy  ; — and  oft,  an  unintruding  guest, 

J  watch'd  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day, 
How  true  she  warp'd  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 

And  modell'd  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 
And  by-and-by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew. 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  : 

And  there  I  witness'a,  in  the  summer-hours, 
A  brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunsliine  and  the  laughing  sky." 
John  Clare. 

Here  we  have  in  miniature  the  history  and  ge- 
ography of  a  "  Thrush's  Nest,"  so  simply  and  naturally 
set  forth,  that  one  might  think  such  strains 

"no more  difficile, 
Than  for  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle ;" 

but  let  the  heartless  critic  who  despises  them  try  his 
own  hand,  either  at  a  bird's  nest  or  a  sonnet  like 
this ;  and  when  he  has  succeeded  in  making  the  one, 
he  may  have  some  hope  of  being  able  to  make  the 
other. 

The  happy  peculiarities  of  that  kind  of  descriptive 
poetry,  which  with  us  is  indigenous — nothing  of 
similar  growth  having  been  preserved  in  the  remains 
of  antiquity,  nor  any  thing  to  compare  with  it  found 
among  the  luxuriant  products  of  modern  Italy, — may 
be  illustrated  by  a  quotation  or  two  from  the  writings 
of  a  bard  of  the  same  humble  class  with  John  Clare, 
but  who  was  not  less  curious  in  marking,  and  skilful 
in  delineatmg,  the  charms  of  external  nature,  and  the 
occ'ipations  of  rural  industry,  than  the  poet  of  "  The 
Se;.sons"  himself.  The  author  of  the  "Farmer's 
Boy"  was  exalted  above  his  deserts  at  the  beginning 
of  his  career ;  and,  according  to  the  usual  reaction 
of  things  in  this  perverse  world,  depreciated  as  much 
belov/  them  in  the  sequel.  Death,  the  universal  ad- 
ministrator of  those  who  die  leaving  an  inheritance 
which  cannot  be  willed,  is  adjusting  the  claims  of 
posterity  to  what  he  has  left  behind  which  may  bo 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.        163 

worthy  of  preservation ;  and  he  has  already  obtained 
that  place  in  the  esteem  of  those  whose  judgments 
are  final,  which  he  will  probably  hold  during  his 
century  of  probation.  Robert  Bloomfield's  Country 
Muse  resembled  the  Country  Maiden,  which  he 
paints  so  prettily  in  his  "  Rural  Tales :" — 

"  No  meadow-flower  rose  fresher  to  the  view, 
That  met  her  morning  footsteps  in  the  dew ; 
When,  if  a  nodding  stranger  eyed  her  charms, 
The  blush  of  modesty  was  up  in  arms  ; 
Love's  random  glances  struck  the'  unguarded  mind 
And  beauty's  magic  made  him  look  behind." 

Thus,  the  public  fell  in  love  with  the  simple  Suffolk 
Muse  at  first  sight ;  and  turning  to  look,  when  she 
had  passed  by,  praised  her  gait,  her  shape,  her  coun- 
tenance, and  air,  as  all-enchanting  and  unrivalled. 
But  meeting  her  repeatedly  afterward  in  the  walks 
of  Parnassus,  and  deeming  her  less  fascinating  at 
every  interview,  that  public,  whose  affections  are 
more  variable  than  the  clouds,  which  change  colour 
in  every  light,  and  form  in  every  breeze,  soon  dis- 
cerned her  homeliness  of  feature,  rusticity  of  accent, 
and  inelegauce  of  manners. — Hence,  though  famil- 
iarity never  bred  contempt,  her  modest  graces  were 
successively  eclipsed  by  the  dazzling  pretensions  of 
higher  born  and  higher  gifted  rivals,  so  that  few  con- 
tinued to  behold  her  with  the  partiality  of  Walter  to 
Jane,  in  his  first  love.  This  poet's  real  merits  must, 
at  any  rate,  have  been  considerable,  to  have  survived 
the  indiscreet  panegyrics  of  mistaken  friends,  and 
the  carping  criticisms  of  fastidious  enemies. 

Bloomfield  excels  in  description,  because  he  pre- 
sents images  and  pictures  both  of  living  and  inani- 
mate nature,  which  every  unperverted  eye  recognises 
at  once,  ^uid  which  often  occasion  not  only  an  emo- 
tio-n  of  pleasure  at  finding  them  in  verse,  but  of  sur- 
prise also  that  they  were  never  found  there  before-, 
because,   though  perfectly    familiar,  the   originals 


1G4        VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

themselves  never  touched  us  so  exquisitely  as  the 
poet's  exhibition  of  them  does.  I  prefer  an  extract 
on  one  of  the  most  hackneyed  themes  of  vulgar 
rhyme,  on  which  he  who  could  produce  novelty  must 
have  been  well  entitled  to  poetic  honours.  Mention- 
ing- the  task  of  Giles,  in  spring,  to  watch  the  new- 
sown  crops,  and  himself  to  frighten  away  the  rooks, 
— or  having  shot  a  few  of  the  marauders  to  hangr 
them  up  as  scarecrows,  or  spread  them  out  dead  on 
fhe  ground,  to  warn  away  their  pilfering  companions, 
these  lines  occur: — 

"  This  task  had  Giles  in  fields  renrtote  from  home; 
Oft  has  he  wish'd  the  rosy  morn  to  come ; 
Yet  never  was  he  famed,  nor  foremost  found, 
To  break  the  seal  of  sleep — his  sleep  was  sound ; 
But  when,  at  daybreak,  summon'd  from  his  bed, 
Light  as  the  lark  that  caroU'd  o'er  his  head : — 
His  sandy  way,  deep-worn  by  hasty  showers, 
O'erarch'd  with  oaks  that  form'd  fantastic  bowers. 
Waving  aloft  their  towering  branches  proud, 
In  borrowed  tinges  from  the  eastern  cloud, 
— Gave  inspiration  pure  as  ever  flow'd. 
And  genuine  transport  in  his  bosom  glow'd. 

**  His  own  shrill  matin  join'd  the  various  notes 
Of  nature's  music  from  a  thousand  throats ; 
The  blackbird  strove  with  emulation  sweet. 
And  Echo  answer'd  from  her  calm  retreat : 
The  sporting  whitethroat,  on  some  twig's  end  borne, 
Pour'd  hymns  to  freedom  and  the  rising  morn  : 
Stopp'd  in  her  song,  perchance,  the  starting  thrush 
Shook  a  white  shower  from  the  blackthorn  bush, 
Where  dew-drops,  thick  as  early  blossoms  hung, 
And  trembled  while  the  minstrel  sweetly  sung' 
Across  his  path  in  either  grove  to  hide. 
The  tunid  ral)bit  scouted  by  his  side ; 
Or  pheasaut  boldly  stalk'd  along  the  road, 
Whose  gold  and  purple  tints  alternate  glow'd." 

Every  couplet  here  shows  the  difference  between  a 
genuine  poet  and  a  mere  accomplished  versifier. 
Four  lines  will  be  sufficient  to  explain  and  justify 
this  assertion.     Arty  rhymer  might  have  placed  the 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.        165 

thrush  upon  the  thorn,  amid  blossoms  and  dew-drops ; 
but  mark  what  a  variety  oiincidents  the  nice  observer 
of  nature  strikes  out.  He  startles  the  bird  in  the 
midst  of  her  song ;  she  flies  off,  and  shakes  from  the 
black-thorn  (the  sloe)  the  earliest  and  frailest  of  the 
season,  "a  white  shower"  upon  the  ground;  but 
instantly  recoUecting  how  "the  minstrel"  had  been 
sitting  before  she  v^^as  disturbed,  he  describes  her 
perched  amid  the  thorny  sprays,  covered  with 
flowers  and  moist  with  dews.  I  repeat  the  lines,  and 
call  particular  attention  to  the  last : — 

"  Stopp'd  in  her  song,  perchance,  the  starting  thrush 
Shook  a  white  shower  from  the  blackthorn  bush, 
Where  dew-drops  thick  as  early  blossoms  hung, 
And  trembled  while  the  minstrel  sweetly  sung." 

Are  not  the  ideas  as  thick  as  the  blossoms,  and  as 
brilliant  as  the  dew-drops  ] 

Bloomfield  has  another  merit ;  it  is  his  own,  and 
he  deserves  a  statue  for  it.  In  his  "  Rural  Tales," 
he  has  succeeded  in  the  patriotic  attempt  to  render 
the  loves  and  joys,  the  sports  and  manners,  of  English 
peasants  interesting.  I  recollect  no  poet  before  him 
who,  by  a  serious,  unaff'ected  delineation  of  humble 
life,  as  it  actually  exists,  had  awakened  strong  sym- 
pathy, in  people  more  prosperously  circumstancecl, 
towards  the  lower  classes  of  the  community.  In 
Goldsmith's  "Deserted  Village,"  much  entertain- 
ment is  afforded,  and  compassion  excited,  by  the 
inimitable  skill  and  pathos  of  the  author  in  display- 
ing the  characters,  pastimes,  wrongs,  and  suff'erings 
of  the  natives  of  "Auburn:"  but  still  the  reader  con- 
descenis  to  be  pleased,  or  to  pity;  and  the  poet  is 
rather  their  advocate  than  their  neighbour,  or  one  of 
thtMTiselves:  there  is  little  oi  fellow-i^ieWwg:  in  the 
case.  Gay  and  others,  who  have  pretended  to  cele- 
brate rural  swains  and  maidens,  have  always  de- 
graded them  by  a  mixture  of  the  ludicrous  with  the 
true,  to  give  spirit  to  tliejr  descriptions ;    thereby 


166       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

making  what  might  have  been  natural  and  affecting, 
merely  grotesque  and  amusing.  I  take  no  account 
here  of  that  most  artificial  of  all  kinds  of  verse,  while 
it  pretends  to  be  the  most  natural, — the  pastorals  of 
our  earliest  poets,  or  those  of  later  ones  down  even 
to  Pope  (in  imitation  of  very  questionable  models  in 
classic  literature),  and  numberless  Arcadian  masque- 
rades in  Continental  languages,  full  of  splendid  faults, 
which  need  not  be  either  exposed  or  reprobated  here, 
— 1  take  no  notice  of  these ;  they  have  been  long 
and  worthily  exploded,  as  having  no  more  reference 
to  the  state  of  society  in  this  island,  or  elsewhere 
under  the  moon,  than  to  the  manners  and  customs  of 
the  inhabitants  of  that  planet  itself,  if  such  there  be. 
Bloomfield  has  done  for  England  what  all  her  native 
bards  have  done  for  Scotland,  "  Richard  and  Kate," 
'^  Walter  and  Jane,"  and  "  The  Miller's  Maid,"  there- 
fore, are  unique  and  original  poems,  which,  by 
representations  equally  graphic  and  dramatic  of  what 
they  really  are,  have  rescued  English  peasants  from 
unmerited  reproach,  and  raised  them  to  equality  with 
their  Scottish  neighbours,  whose  character,  in  verse 
at  least,  is  associated  with  all  that  is  romantic  in  love 
or  delightful  in  song. 

A  paragraph  of  description,  minute  and  elaborate 
to  a  degree,  yet  expanded  into  such  magnificence, 
that  in  its  progress  it  fills  the  mind  with  glory  as  its 
subject  does  the  heavens,  while,  being  introduced  as 
a  simile,  it  is  associated  with  moral  sentiment  of  that 
high  cast  which  makes  "  the  whole  of  unintelligent 
creation  poor," — must  close  this  section : — 

"  As  the  ample  moon. 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer-even, 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove, 
Burns,  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light, 
hi  the  green  trees ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own, 
Yea  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene  ; — like  power  abides 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.        167 

In  man's  celestial  spirit.    Virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself;  thus  feeds 
A  calm,  a  beautiful,  and  silent  lire 
From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment, — nay,  from  Ruilt, 
And  sometimes  (so  relenting  Justice  wills) 
From  palpable  oppressions  of  Despair." 

Wordsworth's  Excursion 

Lyric  Poetry. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  define  the  limits,  or  lay 
down  the  laws,  of  what  passes  in  our  own  country 
under  the  title  of  Lyric  Poetry.  In  these  brief 
papers,  there  is  no  room  to  expatiate  upon  terms : 
it  will  therefore  be  more  convenient,  and  quite  as 
profitable,  to  elucidate  this  nondescript  division  of 
the  subject  by  examples  and  comments,  rather  than 
by  abstract  disquisition.  Italy,  rich  in  every  kind  of 
poetry,  except  the  purely  descriptive,  stands  without 
rival  among  the  nations  of  Europe  in  lyric  com- 
position. Yet,  till  Mr.  Mathias,  some  twenty  years 
ago,  published  six  volumes  of  "  Componimenti  Lirici 
de'  piu  illustri  Poeii  (f  Italia,'^''  the  names  of  Filicaja; 
Guidi,  Testi,  Celio  Magno,  and  others,  were  scarcely 
known  among  us,  while  those  of  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso  were  associated  only  with  the 
"  Divina  Commedia,"  "  Sonetti,"  "  Orlando  Furioso," 
and  "  Gerusalemme  Liberata."  It  is  true  that  there 
are  myriads  of  pieces  called  Lyrics  in  our  language, 
and  every  year  adds  thousands  to  the  number ;  yet 
it  would  be  impossible  to  select,  from  all  our  poets 
of  former  days,  half  a  dozen  volumes  of  Emrlish 
Lyrics,  in  every  respect  equal  to  these.  Dryden, 
Collins,  and  Gray, — nor  must  we  forget  the  exube- 
rant but  almost  unreadable  Cowley, — stand,  without 
question,  before  all  other  English  writers  of  Odes, 
yet  the  whole  round  of  their  pieces  of  permanent 
and  unchangeable  value  might  be  comprehended 
within  the   space  of  one   of   Mr.  Mathias's   little 


168       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

volumes ;  and  the  most  acute  and  industrious  editoi 
might  be  safely  challenged  to  compile  two  more,  of 
approximating-  worth,  out  of  all  the  works  of  all  the 
dead.  This  is  not  stated  to  dishearten  our  country- 
men, or  to  depreciate  their  language.  Their  mother 
tongue  and  their  mother  wit  are,  at  least,  of  equal 
proof  with  those  of  modern  Italy  and  her  most  gifted 
sons.  It  is  expressly  to  stimulate  our  living  bards 
to  study  those  models  of  lyric  excellence,  that  I  hold 
them  so  high,  and  would  excite  my  contemporaries 
to  rival  and  transcend  them  by  original  models  of 
their  own,  of  equal  or  surpassing  grace,  freedom, 
elegance,  and  energy,  combining  every  beauty  of 
thought  with  corresponding  harmony  of  expression. 
All  this  is  possible  in  the  English  language,  but  it 
has  rarely  indeed  been  accomplished.  Let  us  briefly 
notice  three  of  these  great  Italian  masters. 

Vincenzio  Filicaja  had  drunk  deeply  both  of  the 
stream  of  Helicon  and  of 

"  Siloa's  brock,  that  flow'd 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God." 

The  fire  of  the  Muses,  and  the  fire  of  the  altar, 
equally  burned  in  his  bosom,  and  sparkled  through 
his  song.  No  poet  ever  more  successfully  followed 
the  steps  of  the  inspired  prophets,  in  their  paths  of 
highest  elevation,  or  deepest  humility.  His  Canzone 
on  "The  Majesty  of  God,"  and  that  addressed  to 
*'  Sobieski,  King  of  Poland,"  but  more  especially  the 
two  incomparable  odes  on  the  "Siege  and  Deli\er- 
ance  of  Vienna"  (formerly  alluded  to),  display  his 
powers  in  all  their  splendour  and  perfection.  There 
is  wonderful  energy  and  pathos  in  his  language  ;  and 
the  figure  of  repetition,  as  in  the  Sacred  Scriptures, 
is  often  and  most  effectively  employed. 

Celio  Magno  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  of  all 
poets.  His  Canzone  on  the  death  of  his  father,  and 
another  in  contemplation  of  his  own  decease,  breathe 
such  transporting  tenderness,  that  the  mind,  pos 


VARIOUS  CLASSKS  OF  POETRY.        169 

sessed  by  a  melancholy  more  delicious  than  glad- 
ness, resigns  itself  wholly  to  the  revery,  and  dwells 
and  dotes  on  chosen  passages  without  strength  or 
desire  to  leave  them.  Can  any  mortal  man  read 
such  lines  as  the  following,  once  only  ] — 

"  Lasso  me !  che  quest'  alma  e  dolce  luce, 
Questo  bel  ciel,  quest'  aere,  onde  respiro, 
Lasciar  convengo  ;  e  miro 
Fornito  ii  corso  di  mia  vita  omai, 
E  1'  esalar  d'  un  sol  breve  sospiro 
A'  languid'  occhi  etema  notte  adduce  ; 
Ne  per  lor  mai  piu  luce 
Febo,  0  scopre  per  lor  piii  Cintia  i  lai." 

Or  this  apostrophe  of  lingering  regret  1 — 

"  Oh  !  di  nostre  fatiche  empio  riposo, 
E  d'  ogni  uman  sudor  meta  inl'elice , 
Da  cui  torcer  non  lice 
Pur  orma  ne  sperar  pietade  alcuna  ! 
Che  val,  perch'  altri  sia  chiaro  e  felice 
Di  gloria  d'  avi,  o  d'  oro  in  area  ascoso, 
E  d'  ogni  don  giojoso, 
Che  Natura  puo  dar  larga,  e  fortuna, 
Se  tutto  e  falso  ben  sotto  la  luna." 

These  most  beautiful  and  affecting  lines  contain  no 
thought  which  has  not  been  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand times  expressed;  yet  their  influence  is  en- 
chanting, for  they  realize,  in  a  moment,  mingled 
with  mysterious  delight,  that  ineff'able  fear  of  death 
which  is  interwoven  with  life,  and  which  is  natural 
to  all  men ;  for  "  willing"  as  the  spirit  even  of  the 
good  may  be,  "  to  depart  and  to  be  with  Christ, 
which  is  far  better,"  its  frail  companion  shudders  at 
a  change  which  consigns  her  to  worms,  and  dark- 
ness, and  dissolution ; — "  the  Q^-sh  \s  weak,"  and 
trembles  into  dust. 

Alessandro  Guidih^s  been  crowned  by  Mr.  Mathias 
with  the  thickest  laurels  ;  and  fairly  to  him  may  be 
conceded  all  the  glory  that  is  due  to  one  of  the  vain- 
(» 


*70  VAUIUUS    CLASSES    OF    POETRY. 

est  and  sublimest  of  poets.  He  speaks  of  himself 
frequeiitly,  and  always  in  strains  so  boastful  that  he 
would  appear  utterly  disgusting  and  contemptible, 
did  he  not  sing  his  own  praises  in  language  so  cap- 
tivating, and  with  such  genuine  dignity  of  thought 
and  splendour  of  imagery,  that  we  either  forget  or 
forgive  the  egotism  of  the  man,  in  the  overwhelm- 
ing majesty  of  the  poet.  He  actually  seems  to 
speak  the  truth ;  and  truth  is  never  offensive  when 
w^e  believe  it  heartily,  unless  it  condemns  ourselves. 
Airy  grandeur  and  irresistible  impetuosity  are  the 
characteristics  of  his  style ;  his  genius  is  Grecian, 
but  his  spirit  is  Roman, 

Gladly  and  unfearingly  I  turn  to  our  English  Lyr- 
ics, and  begin  with  a  very  small  example,  which, 
however  (like  the  taper  in  the  second  stanza),  g/'ows 
clearer  and  brighter  the  more  it  is  contemplated. 

"  The  wretch,  condemn'd  with  life  to  part, 
Still,  still  on  hope  relies, 
And  every  pang  that  rends  his  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

"  Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 
Adorns  and  cheers  his  way, 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 
Emits  a  brighter  ray." 

Goldsmith. 

Is  this  poetry  1  Every  one  feels  that  it  is.  Is  i. 
fine  versification  1  In  that  respect,  also,  it  is  unex- 
ceptionable. Now,  the  same  ideas  might  be  given 
in  prose,  without  being  deemed  extravagant, — while 
in  point  of  diction  they  could  hardly  be  more  hum- 
bly attired.  Yet  he  who  should  attempt  to  do  this, 
with  equal  effect,  in  any  other  form  than  the  original, 
would  find  that  he  had  set  himself  to  catch  a  rain- 
bow, and  bend  it  in  a  contrary  direction.  There  is 
the  subject, — a  captive  under  sentence  of  death,  yet 
nursing  in  secret,  almost  from  despair,  tlie  hope  of 
life,  with  every  pang.     Here  he  is  transformed  into 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.        171 

a  benifr]ited  wanderer,  whom  the  j^pparition  of  that 
cherished  deceiver  meets  amid  the  darkness  and 
allures  from  afar,  under  the  semblance  of  a  stream 
of  light  from  a  cottage  window,  brightening  as  he 
approaches;  while  we,  who  fear  the  illusion  may 
prove  an  ig?ils  fatuus,  are  prepared  to  see  him  sud- 
denly ingulfed  in  a  morass.  Poetry  is  the  short- 
hand of  thought :  how  much  is  expressed  here  in 
less  than  threescore  syllables : — 

TO   THE    MEMORY    OF    THOSE    WHO   FELL   IN   THE    REBELLION 
OF    1715. 

"  How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
With  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  leec  have  ever  trod. 

*'  Ly  Fairy  hanJs  tbeli  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  tbeii  airge  is  sung ; 
There  Honou^-  comei,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
Tc  bless  ihe  turl  'hn.t  wraps  their  clay ; 
Ard  Freedom  shal'  a  while  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit  there." 

Collins. 

Again ;  what  a  quantity  of  thought  is  here  con- 
cl*.nsed  in  the  compass  of  twelve  lines,  like  a  cluster 
of  rock  crystals,  sparkling  and  distinct,  yet  receiv- 
ing and  reflecting  lustre  by  their  combination.  The 
stanzas  themselves  are  almost  unrivalled  in  the  asso- 
ciation of  poetry  wilh  picture,  pathos  with  fancy, 
grandeur  with  simplicity,  and  romance  with  reality. 
The  melody  of  the  verse  leaves  nothing  for  the  ear 
to  desire,  except  a  continiance  cf  the  strain,  or, 
rather,  the  repetition  ot  a  strain  v-h^.ch  cannot  tire 
by  repetition.  The  i./^.agery  \s  cf  the  most  delicate 
and  exquisite  character, — Spring  decking  the  tui'fy 
sod;  Fancy's  feet  treading  upon  the  flowers  there; 
Fairy  hands  ringing  the  loiell ;  unseen  forms  sing- 


172       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

ing-  the  dirge  of  the  glorious  dead ;  but,  above  all, 
and  never  to  be  surpassed  in  picturesque  and  ima- 
ginative beauty,  Honour,  as  an  old  and  broken  sol- 
dier, coming  on  far  pilgrimage  to  visit  the  shrine 
where  his  companions  in  arms  are  laid  to  rest  ;  and 
Freedom,  in  whose  cause  they  fought  and  fell, — 
leaving  the  mountains  and  fields,  the  hamlets  and 
the  unwalled  cities  of  England  delivered  by  their 
valour, — hastening  to  the  spot,  and  dwelling  (but 
only  for  "  a  while")  "  a  weeping  hermit  there." 
The  sentiment,  too,  is  profound  : — "  How  sleep  the 
brave !" — not  how  sweetly,  soundly,  happily  !  for 
all  these  are  included  in  the  simple  apostrophe, 
*'  How  sleep  the  brave  !"     Then,  in  that  lovely  line, 

"  By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest," 

is  implied  every  circumstance  of  loss  and  lamenta 
tion,  of  solemnity  at  the  interment,  and  posthumous 
homage  to  their  memory,  by  the  threefold  person- 
ages of  the  scene, — living,  shadowy,  and  preter- 
natural beings.  As  for  thought,  he  who  can  hear 
this  little  dirge  "sung,"  as  it  is,  by  the  "unseen 
form"  of  the  author  himself,  who  cannot  die  in  it-^- 
without  having  thoughts,  "  as  thick  as  motes  that 
people  the  sunbeams,"  thronging  through  his  mind, 
must  have  a  brain  as  impervious  to  the  former  as 
the  umbrage  of  a  South  American  forest  to  the 
latter.  There  are  in  its  associations  of  war,  peace, 
glory,  suffering,  life,  death,  immortality,  which 
might  furnish  food  for  a  midsummer  day's  medita- 
tion, and  a  midwinter  night's  dream  afterward,  could 
June  and  December  be  made  to  meet  in  a  poet's 
revery. 

FROM    THE    EXEQUY,    ON   THE    DEATH    OF   A    BELOVED    WIFE. 

{By  Henry  King,  Bishop  of  Chichester;  born  1591,  died  1669.) 

"  Sleep  on,  my  !ovp,  in  thy  cold  bed 
Never  to  be  disquieted ; 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.       173 

My  last '  good  night  /'  thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  ihy  fate  shall  overtake  ; 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness,  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves  ;  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

"  Slay  for  me  there  ;  I  will  not  faile 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale  ; 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay, 
I  am  already  on  tho  way, 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed- 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
And  every  houre  a  step  towards  thee  ; 
At  night,  when  I  betake  to  rest. 
Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  West 
Of  life,  almost  by  eight  houres'  sail, 
Than  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsie  gale  !'* 

What  a  "  last  good  night !"  is  this  !  and  oh  !  what  a 
one  ''''good  morrow  V  to  last  for  eternity,  when  such 
partners  awake  from  the  same  bed,  in  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  just!  Is  there  the  "man  born  of  a 
woman,"  who  has  loved  a  woman,  and  lost  whom  he 
loved,  and  lamented  whom  he  has  lost,  that  will  not 
feel  in  the  depth  of  his  spirit  all  the  tenderness,  and 
truth  of  these  old-fashioned  couplets]  I  dare  not 
offer  a  comment  upon  them,  lest  1  should  disturb  the 
sanctity  of  repose  which  they  are  calculated  to  in- 
spire. Nature  speaks  all  languages ;  and  no  style 
is  too  quaint  or  pedantic,  in  which  she  may  not 
utter  heart-sentiments  in  terms  that  cannot  be  mis- 
understood, or  understood  be  resisted. 

Gray  is  one  of  the  few,  the  very  few,  of  our  great- 
est poets,  who  deserves  to  be  studied  in  every  line 
for  the  apprehension  of  that  wonderful  sweetness, 
power,  and  splendour  of  versification  which  has 
made  liim  (scholastic  and  difficult  as  he  is)  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  writers,  though  his  rhymes  are 
occasionally  flat,  and  his  phrases  heathen  Greek  to 
ordinary  readers.     The  secret  of   his   supremacy 


174  VARIOUS    CLASSES    OF    POF.TKV- 

consists  principally  in  the  consiimmHte  art  with 
which  his  diction  is  elaborrited  into  the  most  melo- 
dious concatenation  of  syllables  to  form  lines ;  and 
those  lines  so  to  implicate  and  evolve  in  progres- 
sion, that  the  strain  of  one  of  Handel's  Overtures  is 
not  more  consecutively  ordered  to  carry  the  mind 
onward,  through  every  bar,  to  the  march  at  the  con- 
clusion, when  (as  in  the  instance  of  the  Occasional 
Oratorio)  the  hearer  has  been  wrought  to  such  a 
state  of  exaltation  that  fie  feels  as  though  he  could 
mount   the    scaffold  to  the   beaten   time   of  such 


"  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  strav.'-bjilt  si:  ed 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  and  the  echor  g  hem, 
No  mere  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed." 

Gray's  Elegy. 

"Ihis  is  one  of  the  most  striking  stanzas  in  Gray's 
Fiegy,  which  owes  much  of  its  celebrity  lo  tne  ccn- 
nc  fdance  of  numbers  expressly  tuned  to  tnc  suOI-tjc^s, 
eP'.t  xelicity  of  language  both  in  the  so-jnd  ara  i.(^Q 
s*g"nificance  of  words  employed.  Yet  in  ii.e  fi*-st 
Y)TsZ  of  the  verse  above  quoted,  the  far-souf^i^i,  3ie- 
g'ance  of  characteristic  description  in  "tno  breezy 
cal.i  of  incense-breathing  morn"  is  spoiled  utterly  by 
the  disagreeable  clash  between  "breezy"  and  "■*■  brea- 
thing,"  within  a  few  syllables  of  each  other.  Con- 
trast this  with  the  corresponding  line,  and  the  duUe??* 
ear  will  distinguish  the  clear,  full  harmony  of 

"  The  cock's  slirill  clarion,  and  the  echoing  horn,'' 

from  theasthmatical  wheezing  of  the  breeze  and  tne 
breathing  of  the  incense.  This  has  been  mentioned, 
not  for  the  sake  of  petty  criticism,  but  to  render 
more  emphatical  the  stress  which  I  lay  upon  the 
pre-eminence  of  this  author  in  the  management  of 
English  rhythm. 


VARIOUS    CLASSKS    OF    POETRY.  175 

"  Oh,  lyre  divine  !  what  daring  spirit 
W"i\kes  theo  now  ?  thoiigli  he  inherit 
Not  the  pride,  nor  mn])le  pinion, 
Which  the  Theban  oagle  bare, 
SaiUng  with  supreme  doinmion 
Througli  the  azure  deep  of  air." 

Progress  of  Poesy. 

Where  can  measures  more  noble  than  the  fore- 
going be  foinid  in  any  modern  tongue  1 

"  Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

Wliile,  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm, 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes, — 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm  , 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey.' 

The  Bard. 

It  would  be  idle  to  descant  on  the  diction  or  im- 
agery of  verses  like  these.  T  will  only  advert  to 
the  prophetic  intimation  of  the  catastrophe  in  the 
last  clause.  Had  the  poet  described  the  tempest 
itself  with  the  power  of  Virgil  in  the  first  book  of 
his  iSneid,  it  would  have  failed  in  this  instance  to 
produce  the  effect  of  sublime  and  ineffable  horror, 
of  which  a  glimpse  appears  in  the  background,  while 
the  gallant  vessel  is  sailing  with  wind,  and  tide,  and 
sunshine  on  a  sea  of  glory.  All  the  sweeping  fury 
of  the  whirlwind,  awake  and  ravening  over  "  his 
evening  prey,"  would  have  been  less  terrible  than 
his  "  grim  repose  ;"  and  the  shrieks  and  struggles 
^f  drowning  mariners  less  affecting  than  the 
sight  of 

"  Youth  on  the  prow,  and  <^^easure  at  the  helm," 

"  regardless"  of  the  inevitable  doom  on  which  they 
were  already  verging. 

Dryden's  "  Alexander's  Feast"  is  undoubtedly  the 
lyric  masterpiece  of  English  poetry,  in  respect  to 
versification ;  exemplifying,  as  it  does,  all  the  capa- 


176       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

bilities  of  our  language  in  the  use  of  iambics,  tro- 
chees, anapaests,  dactyls,  and  spondees.  The  me- 
tres in  this  composition  are  so  varying,  and  yet  so 
consonant — so  harmonious  and  so  contrasted — they 
implicate  and  disentangle  again  so  naturally,  so  ne- 
cessarily almost,  that  I  know  not  to  what  they  can 
better  be  compared  than  to  a  group  of  young  lion 
at  play — meeting,  mingling,  separating — pursuing 
attacking,  repelling — changing  attitude,  action,  m 
tion,  every  instant — all  fire,  force,  and  flexibility 
exuberant  in  spirits,  yet  wasting  none ;  while  th 
poet,  like  their  sire  couched  and  looking  on,  may 
be  presumed  with  his  eye  to  have  ruled  every  turn 
and  crisis  of  their  game.  He  sings,  indeed,  the 
triumph  of  music — but  his  poetry  triumphs  over  his 
subject ;  and  he  insinuates  as  much.  It  was  less 
"  the  breathing  flute  and  sounding  lyre"  of  Timo- 
theus,  than  the  living  voice,  the  changing  themes, 
the  language  of  light  and  power  of  the  bard,  "  that 
won  the  cause,"  A  single  section  will  justify  this 
praise ;  the  measures,  it  will  be  observed,  change 
in  every  couplet :  there  are  scarce  two  lines  alike 
in  accentuation ;  yet  the  whole  seems  as  spontane- 
ous as  the  cries  of  alarm  and  consternation  excited 
by  the  bacchanal  orgies  described. 

"  Now  strike  the  golden  lyi-e  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  ; 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head, 

As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !  Timotheus  cries ; 
See  the  furies  arise: 
See  tlie  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  the  air, 
And  the  spark'es  that  flash  from  their  eyes. 

Behold  a  ghastly  hand, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  glinsts.  that  in  battle  were  siain 


VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY.       177 

And  unburied  remain, 

Inglorious  on  the  plain  :— 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew  ! 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  the  hostile  gods  ! 
— The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy, 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau,  with  zeal  to  destroy  ■ 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And  like  another  Helen  fired  another  Troy." 

Metrical  Romances. 

A  free  and  easy  species  of  verse,  which  may  be 
called  the  lyrical  narrative,  has  been  very  fashion- 
able since  the  first  splendid  achievements  of  the 
great  master  in  this  style,  Sir  Walter  Scott ;  who 
founded  it  upon  the  models  of  his  elder  countrymen, 
rejecting  their  barbarisms,  and  blending  with  their 
better  manner  an  abundant  proportion  of  modern 
refinements.  This  innovation  affects  various  forms 
in  its  rhythmical  cadences,  but  its  practitioners  con- 
fine themselves  to  none  altogether:  here,  skirmish- 
ing away  in  the  moss-trooping  measures  of  "  The 
Last  Minstrel"-  -there,  marching  in  stanzas  of  a 
mile,  with  the  stately  tread  of  "  Marmion ;"  and 
again,  like  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  gracefully  row- 
ing along  in  octosyllabic  time.  Fifty  romances,  at 
least,  have  been  published  in  this  vein,  of  which  five 
will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  From  one  of  these 
(the  least  irregular  of  Sir  Walter's  Border  epics),  as 
an  example  of  tragic  power  in  which  he  has  out- 
gone himself,  I  extract  the  "Death  of  Roderic 
Dhu,"  the  sternest  of  all  his  champions.  Roderic, 
wounded  and  captive,  is  imprisoned  in  a  hideous 
"  donjon  keep."  A  minstrel  is  introduced  to  him  by 
mistake,  who,  being  locked  in  with  the  chieftain 
Gael,  sings,  at  his  request,  "  The  Battle  of  Beale 
and  Duine."     Roderic  is  thus  represented: — 


178       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

"A"  i.he  tali  ship,  whose  loft)'-  pr-:.r<r 
::VaaH  ne-'er  stera  the  billows  lA.ii^ 
Descr'i  8d  by  her  gallant  band, 
Araii  the  breakers  lies  astrand  ; — 
So  on  his  Gouch  lay  Roderic  Dha  ! 
•—And  oft  his  fever'd  limbs  he  threw 
In  toss  abrupt ;  as  when  her  sides 
Lie  rocking  on  the  advancing  tides, 
That  strike  her  frame  with  ceaseless  beat, 
Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat ; 
Op.  !  how  unlike  her  course  at  sea ! 
Or  his  free  step  upon  the  lea  !" 

Aftei  some  discourse  with  his  companions— 

"The  chieftain  raised  his  form  on  high, 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye ; 
And  ghastly  pale  and  livid  streaks 
Cliecker'd  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks." 

'rib  T/.ir-.strel  begins  his  lay ;  and  after  having 
*«"ai?fe'  l''jiig  and  furiously,  the  strain  abruptly  ends  : 

'-'  The  harp  escaped  the  minstrel's  hand !  — 
Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 
How  Roderic  brook'd  his  minstrelsy. 

'M^  first  the  chieftain,  to  his  chime, 
Wi'th  lifted  hand,  kept  feeble  time  ; 
That  motion  ceased  ; — yet  feeUng  strong, 
Varied  his  look  as  changed  Ihe  song : 
At  length  no  more  his  deafen'd  ear 
The  minstrel's  melody  can  hear ; 
His  face  grows  sharp  ;  his  hands  are  clench'd. 
As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrench'd  ; 
Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy  : 
Thus,  motionless,  and  moanless,  drew 
His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderic  Dhu." 

Here  is  a  worthy  companion-piece  to  the  "  Death 
of  Marmion,"  so  much  celebrated.  To  me  the 
silence,  the  deafness,  the  terrible  tranquillity  of  dis- 
Boh'tjon  in  the  Highland  chief  arc  more  awful  and 


VARIOUS     CLASSES    OF    I'OETKV.  179 

impressive  than  the  delirious  ecstasy  and  the  expir 
mg  shout  of  the  English  hero  : — 

•' '  Charge,  Chester !  charge ! — on,  Stanley,  ou ' 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion." 

Out 

" Motionless,  and  moanless,  drew 

His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderic  Dhu."* 

Poetry  for  the  Young. 

I  shall  particularize  only  one  species  more  of  this 
versatile  art,  little  used  in  former  times,  but  which 
has  been  carried  to  extraordinary  perfection  in  our 
own.  The  authors  of  those  small  volumes,  "  Original 
Poems,"  "  Rhymes  for  the  Nursery,"  and  "  Hymns 
for  Infant  Minds,"  have  indeed  deserved  well  of  their 
country,  and  long  will  their  humble  but  admirable 
productions  continue  to  bless  its  successive  genera- 
tions. Though  even  in  these  they  showed  them- 
selves qualified  to  indite  for  persons  of  larger  growth, 
and  entitled  to  claim  high  poetic  honours,  yet  the 
fair  and  modest  writers — for  they  were  of  the  better 
sex — condescended  to  gather  flowers  at  the  foot  of 
Parnassus  to  wreathe  the  brows  of  infancy,  instead 
of  climbing  towards  the  summit  to  grasp  at  laurels 
for  their  own.  I  say  they  condescended  to  do  this 
because  it  is  hard  for  the  pride  of  intellect  to  forego 
any  advantage  which  might  set  off  itself  before  the 
public.  To  most  poets  it  would  have  been  no  small 
annoyance  to  be  confined  to  the  nursery  and  play- 
ground, and  sing  to  please  little  children,  when  they 
might  command  the  attention  of  men  ;  for  children, 
however  they  may  be  delighted  with  the  song,  pay 
no  tribute  of  applause  to  the  minstrel :  but  when 
they  are  charmed  with  a  beautiful  idea  in  a  book, 
feel  and  express  the  same  simple  and  unmixed 
pleasure  as  when  they  gaze  upon  a  peacock,  or  listen 
to  the  ciifkoo.     it  never  outers  into  their  nnsophis- 


180  VARJ.)US    CLASSES    OF     POETRY. 

ticated  minds  to  attach  merit  to  the  bestowers  ol 
such  blessings.  The  sense  and  the  desire  of  enjoy- 
ment are  born  with  them,  but  gratitude  and  venera- 
tion they  must  be  taught. 

Hence,  there  is  little  temptation,  except  the  pure 
impulse  to  do  good,  to  compose  works  of  any  kind 
for  the  amusement  of  those  who  neither  flatter  the 
vanity  nor  reward  the  labours  of  their  benefactors. 
The  contributors  to  the  volumes  in  question  will- 
ingly sacrificed  ambition,  and  were  content  to  clothe 
truth  in  language  so  clear  and  pure  that  it  should 
appear  like  a  robe  of  light  shining  from  heaven 
around  her,  to  reveal  her  beauty  and  proportions^ 
and  thus  attract  the  eye  that  rolled  in  darkness,  and 
the  feet  that  wandered  in  error  before.  How  suc- 
cessfully they  have  effected  their  purpose  may  be 
shown  by  three  brief  stanzas,  which  also  prove  what 
I  have  been  most  anxious  in  these  papers  to  estab- 
lish, that  verse  in  its  diction  may  be  as  unadorned  and 
inartificial  as  prose,  yet  lose  nothing  of  the  elegance 
and  grandeur  of  poetry.  The  attribute  of  Deity 
called  omnipresence  is,  perhaps,  as  difficult  to  express 
otherwise  than  by  that  one  emphatic  word,  as  any 
other  object  that  can  be  imagined.  A  thousand  illus- 
trations might  be  more  easily  given  than  one  dis- 
tinct idea  of  it.  1  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  do  think 
that  the  nearest  possible  approach  has  been  made 
to  it  in  the  last  of  the  following  lines.  A  child 
't'^eaks  : — 

"  If  I  could  find  some  cave  unknown, 
Where  human  feet  have  never  trod, 
Even  there  I  could  not  be  alone, 
On  every  side  there  would  be  God.^' 


This  is  a  child's  thought  in  a  child's  words ;  and 
yet  the  longer  it  is  dwell  upon  the  more  impressive 
it  becomes,  till  wo  feel  ourselves  as  much  in  the 
fjrcsencn  of  Deity  ;is  \^'itlliIl  the  ring  of  the  horizon, 


VARIOUS  CLASSKS  OF  POETRY.       181 

and  under  the  arch  of  heaven,  wherever  we  go,  and 
however  the  scene  may  be  changed. 

Eternity  is  another  indefinite  and  undescribable 
thing.  Hear  a  child's  notion  of  it,  and  I  am  sure 
the  wisest  in  this  assembly  will  not  be  displeased 
with  it : — 

"  Days,  months,  and  years  must  have  an  end; 
Eternity  has  none ; 
Twill  always  have  as  lojior  to  spend 
As  when  it  first  begu7i." 

The  very  impotence  of  language  is  sometimes  the 
strongest  expression  of  the  sentiment  to  be  conveyed. 
Here,  when  words  break  down  under  the  weight 
of  the  thought,  how  natural  and  touching  is  the 
apostrophe  in  which  the  infant  mind  takes  refuge 
from  the  overwhelming  contemplation !  Can  1  be 
wrong  in  wishing  that  he  who  now  utters,  and  all 
who  hear  it,  may  be  able  to  adopt  the  praver  ] — 

"  Great  God !  an  infant  cannot  tell 
How  such  a  thing  can  be  : 
— /  otily  pray  that  I  may  dwell 
That  long,  long  time  with  Thee." 

It  would  be  injustice  to  forget,  in  this  connexion, 
Dr.  Watts's  '^  Divine  Songs  for  Children."  These 
form  so  small  d  portion  of  his  multiform  labours, 
that,  were  they  expunged,  the  eye  could  scarcely 
perceive  the  bulk  of  one  of  the  volumes  diminished. 
Yet  who  can  calculate  the  innocent  pleisure  and 
the  abiding  profit  which  those  few  leaves  have 
afforded  to  myriads  of  minds  through  the  lapse  of  a 
century!  And  much  more,  who  can  estimate  the 
treasure  of  instruction  and  delight  which  would 
thereby  be  lost  to  millions  hereafter,  through  ages 
untold  1 

Translated  Poetry. 

There  is  not  in  our  language  a  popular  translation 


182       VARIOUS  CLASSES  OF  POETRY. 

of  any  classical  author,  which  has  been,  is  still, 
and  will  probably  continue  to  be,  a  favourite  with 
mere  English  readers,  except  Pope's  versions  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey.  In  these,  with  unprecedented 
originality  of  imitation,  our  countryman,  affecting  to 
put  on  Homer,  has  converted  Homer  into  himself — 
hewn  a  Hercules  into  an  Apollo; — for  these  gor- 
geous poems  are  undoubtedly  read  more  for  the 
beauties  which  the  modern  has  conferred  upon 
them,  than  for  those  which  he  preserved  from  the 
venerable  ancient. 

On  the  other  hand,  Cowper's  translation,  what- 
ever be  its  positive  defects,  is  one  which  no  ordinary 
poetical  power  could  have  accomplished.  There 
are  many  passages  in  it  which  leave  Pope's  brilliant 
paraphrases  of  the  corresponding  hues  as  far  behind 
them  as  they  themselves  maybe  deemed  below  the 
unapproachable  Greek.  But  the  general  compari- 
son between  the  two  British  Homers  of  the  last  cen- 
tury is  always  exceedingly  to  the  advantage  of  the 
latter;  for  this,  among  other  causes,  that  transla- 
tions of  classic  authors  (unless  on  their  first  appear- 
ance) are  very  little  read,  except  by  youth,  and  by 
these  often  before  they  have  become  sufficiently 
familiar  wit)i  the  originals  to  enjoy  their  surpassing 
excellence.  With  such  readers  the  first  version  of 
a  favourite  poet,  if  it  have  high  merit,  so  fills  the 
imagination,  unoccupied  before,  with  the  story,  char- 
acters, and  embellishments,  all  identified  with  its 
peculiar  phraseology,  that  even  a  superior  work 
afterward,  embracing  the  same  subjects,  cannot  rival 
it.  If  in  two  of  our  seminaries  Cowper's  Homer 
were  the  reading  book  of  the  scholars  at  the  one, 
and  Pope's  of  those  at  the  other,  it  is  probable  that 
the  cleverest  lads — those  who  really  enjoyed  the 
poetry  of  the  translation — would,  to  their  lives'  end, 
prefer  that  which  had  made  the  first  ineflfaceable 
impression  upon  their  minds  ;  and  in  such  a  case  it 


VAKIOUS    CLASSES    OF     I'OKTRY.  183 

would  be  as  difficult  to  supersede  Cowper  by  Pope, 
as  it  is  now  to  supersede  Pope  by  Cowper. 

Few  of  the  merely  English  readers  alluded  to 
above  can  patiently  peruse,  and  not  one  in  a  hun- 
dred of  them  fervently  admire,  the  Virgil  of  Dryden  ; 
much  less  that  of  Pitt  and  Warton,  though  far  more 
faithful  to  the  text  of  the  author.  In  both  they  look 
in  vain  for  that  perfection  of  thought  and  expression, 
that  fulness  without  overflowing,  ease  without  neg- 
ligence, strength  without  harshness,  which  scholars 
have  persuaded  them  are  to  be  found  in  the  original. 
A  careless  writer  can  never  do  justice  to  a  laborious 
one.  Dryden  was  careless,  Virgil  was  laborious,  in 
composition  ;  neither  the  faults  nor  the  merits  of  the 
EngUsh  poem  can  be  charged  to  the  account  of  the 
Latin.  On  the  other  hand,  neither  Warton  nor  Pitt 
had  breath  to  keep  pace  with  Virgil,  even  when  he 
walks;  still  less  had  they  spirit  to  mount  with  him 
when  he  flies.  Excellent  critics  are  often  indiff'er- 
ent  poets.  None,  indeed,  more  learnedly  than  War- 
ton  could  point  out,  in  a  commentary,  the  grace  and 
grandeur  of  the  Roman  eagle's  course  ;  but  he  and 
Pitt,  in  verse,  could  do  no  more  than  mimic  with 
their  hands  the  action  of  his  wings,  and  follow  on 
earth  his  shadow,  along  the  ground,  as  he  sailed 
through  the  heavens.  The  fact  is,  that  no  man  can 
think  another  man's  thoughts,  or  so  identically  com- 
municate his  own,  as  to  make  another  think  them 
precisely  as  he  himself  does.  How  much  more  im- 
perfectly, then,  must  they  be  transmitted  through 
the  medium  of  a  second  mind,  in  a  new  language, l;o 
a  distant  age,  and  among  a  strange  people  !  Pitt  and 
Warton  hunted  Virgil  by  the  scent,  and  therefore 
were  always  behind  him.  Dryden  might  perhaps 
have  matched  his  master  by  deviating  from  his 
track,  yet  preserving  the  same  direction;  but  he 
often  loitered,  generally  hurried,  by  any  means  and 
by  every  means,  endeavouring  to  get  to  his  journey's 


184  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTER. 

end  ;  and  rather  measuring  the  given  distance  than 
choosing  the  right  course — 

"  through  straight,  rough,  dense,  or  rare, 
With  head,  hands,  wings,  or  feet,  pursued  his  way." 

Milton. 

Similar  strictures  might  be  passed  upon  all  the 
translations  in  our  language,  whether  of  ancient  or 
modern  poems.  Of  such,  however,  no  country  can 
boast  a  larger  number,  possessing  high  intrinsic  as 
well  as  great  comparative  merit. 


LECTURE  VI. 


ON   THE    POETICAL    CHARACTER  ;    THE    THEMES    AND 
INFLUENCES    OF    POETRY. 

The  Desire  of  Fame. 

There  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  obtain  as  an  earthly 
immortality.  Dr.  Young  calls  "the  love  of  fame" 
"  the  universal  passion  ;"  and  he  has  written  a  series 
of  satires  to  exemplify  it.  It  is  probably  true  that 
every  man  living  covets  distinction,  and  in  some 
point  or  other  so  far  excels  his  neighbours  as  to 
imagine  himself  entitled,  in  that  respect  at  least,  to 
pre-eminence  among  them.  This  passion  differs 
rather  in  degree  than  in  kind  from  that  "longing 
after  immortality"  which  is  almost  peculiar  to  heroes 
and  autl)ors — the  greatest  actors  and  the  greatest 
hinkers — the  greatest  realists  and  the  greatest  ima- 
ginarians,  if  I  may  coin  a  barbarous  word  for  a  spe- 
cial occasion.  Heroes  and  authors,  however,  do 
uot  asDire  to  precisely  the  same  species  of  immor- 


THK     POirnCAL    CHARACTER.  185 

tality ;  the  former  seeking  to  be  remembered  /or, 
the  latter  by,  their  performances ;  the  first  expect 
to  live  in  the  writings  of  other  men,  the  second  in 
their  own. 

Few  Universal  Reputations. 

Of  ail  these  candidates  for  posthumous  renown, 
the  poets,  it  may  be  supposed  (without  any  dispar- 
agement to  them,  or  to  the  rest,  for  this  equivocal 
precedence),  are  the  most  sanguine  and  romantic  in 
their  desires,  and  in  their  hopes.  Two  hundred 
thousand  millions  of  human  beings  may  have  lived 
and  died  in  this  world  since  the  creation.  It  would 
be  idle  to  conjecture  how  many  of  these  have  been 
poets  in  their  day,  and  intended  within  themselves 
to  be  poets  till  the  consummation  of  all  things.  It 
is  certain,  however,  that  there  is  but  one  Homer, 
one  Pindar,  one  Virgil,  one  Horace,  and  some  twenty 
other  names  of  secondary  note,  even  including  the 
three  great  Greek  tragedians,  who  had  outhved 
in  song  the  mortality  of  five  thousand  years,  before 
the  restoration  of  learning;  and  who,  from  peculiar 
circumstances,  cannot  now  be  expected  to  perish 
while  man  himself  endures.  Add  to  these  from  two 
to  three  hundred  more,  of  comparatively  modern 
date,  and  that  number  will  comprehend  all  the  poets, 
of  all  ages  and  countries,  who  are  still  locally,  ex- 
tensively, or  universally  admired. 

Among  the  latter  there  are  ten  or  twelve  names 
(and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  add  as  many  more),  so 
familiarly  associated  with  the  revival  and  the  early 
progress  of  letters  in  Europe,  that  they  instantly 
recur  to  recollection  when  the  subject,  in  reference 
to  their  several  countries,  is  brought  under  consid- 
eration. These,  by  a  prescription  which  cannot 
now  be  set  aside,  and  which  it  would  be  vain  to  dis- 
pute, have  obtained  such  universality,  as  well  as 
firm    footmg   of  fame,  that    thev  may  be    already 


188  THE     POETICAL    CHARACTER. 

ranked  with  the  ancients  afore-mentioned.  Partly 
by  primogeniture,  but  principally  by  uninherited  and 
intransmissible  nobility  of  genius,  born  with  them 
in  times  peculiarly  favourable  to  its  fullest  develop- 
ment, these  few  illustrious  fathers,  founders,  and 
exemplars  of  the  intellectual  character  of  their  re- 
spective nations,  have  acquired  that  supremacy, 
w^hich,  whatever  be  their  comparative  merits  or 
faults, — and  whatever  the  abstract  claims  of  contem- 
poraries or  successors, — it  becomes  more  and  more 
difficult,  through  every  improving  age,  for  later  as- 
pirants to  attain. 

Of  this  small  number  of  patrician  names  Italy  has 
had  the  glory  of  producing  four, — Dante,  Petrarch, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso  ;  Spain  and  Portugal  one  each, 
— Cervantes  and  Camoens  ;  France  two  (of  very  late 
growth) — Corneille  and  Racine ;  Holland  might  have 
furnished  one,— Erasmus,  but  he  chose  rather  to  em- 
balm his  thoughts  in  a  dead  language,  than  keep 
them  alive  in  his  own ;  England  adds  two  to  the 
honourable  list,— Shakspeare  and  Milton  ;  Spenser 
(whom  none  but  himself  could  have  excluded  by  his 
perverse  affectation  of  a  style  never  spoken  by. man) 
ought  to  have  been  a  third  ;  and  Chaucer  might'have 
been  a  fourth  (the  first,  indeed,  in  date),  but  time 
has  de-alt  hardly  with  him,  and  almost  forgotten  the 
rugged  tongue  in  which  the  merry  bard  delighted 
him  of  old,  with  many  a  tale  of  men  and  manner? 
seen  no  more  on  earth.  For  the  rest  of  Europe,  it 
will  require  a  pause  to  think  of  another  name  to 
represent  the  literature  of  any  one,  or  all  its  popu 
lous  provinces  ;  though  the  very  circumstance  of  an 
effort  being  necessary,  in  such  a  case,  to  single  out 
an  individual, 

"Whose  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart." 

Wordsworth. 

among  the  hundreds  recorded  in  biographical  die 
tionaries,  is  sufficient  proof  that  not  one  is  to  be 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTER.  187 

found  of  the  class  to  which  allusion  is  now  made ; 
not  one  wliose  rank  is  so  conspicuous,  and  his  ce- 
lebrity so  unequivocal,  that  his  existence,  and  the 
primal  literature  of  his  native  soil  being  identified,  a 
casual  recurrence  to  either  will  bring  to  remem- 
brance the  other. 

No  stress  is  here  laid  upon  any  thing  but  the  bare 
fact,  that,  among  the  multitude  of  eminent  writers 
\n  Italy,  Spain,  France,  England,  and  the  rest  of 
Christendom,  between  the  twelfth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  (I  purposely  exclude  all  later  born,  as  not 
having  yet  passed  their  full  ordeal),there  are  scarcely 
so  many  as  twenty  of  whom  it  can  be  unhesitatingly 
assumed,  that,  whatever  be  the  future  multiplication 
and  extinction  of  books,  their  names  and  their  works 
must  last  till  a  revolution  in  society,  equal,  but  not 
similar  (for  it  is  unimaginable  that  barbarism  should 
ever  again  prevail),  to  that  which  overthrew  the 
empire  and  the  arts  of  Greece  and  Rome, — -shall 
utterly  change  the  whole  character  of  literary  taste 
throughout  the  civilized  world ;  or  a  scattering 
abroad  of  its  people,  like  that  after  the  confusion  of 
tongues  at  the  building  of  Babel,  shall  dissipate  the 
languages  in  which  they  have  apparently  immortal- 
ized their  thoughts,  or  which  have  been  immortalized 
by  being  made  the  vehicle  of  the  same. 

It  is  not  questioned  here  that  many  others  maj 
possibly  survive  as  long  as  these,  but  it  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  many  more,  like  them,  should  be 
men  of  all  ages  and  all  countries.  The  productions 
of  those  who  shall  most  slowly  descend  from  con- 
temporary splendour  into  gradual  obscurity  and  final 
oblivion,  will  necessarily  he  reduced,  in  the  course 
of  two  centuries,  to  rarities  in  literature,  seldonr- 
consulted,  and  read  never,  though  from  courtesy 
enumerated  with  honour  in  the  catalogues  of  col- 
lectors ;  while  a  few  of  their  more  precious  frag- 
ments may,  perhaps,  be  preserved  and  quoted  in 
popular  selections  for  the  use  of  schools,  or  the 


188  'IHi:    POETICAL    CHARACTER. 

delight  of  holyday  readers.  Every  generation  will 
produce  its  Cowleys  and  Drydens,  its  Wallers  and 
Carews,  whose  "  freshe  songis"  (to  use  the  an- 
tique phrase  of  Chaucer)  in  perennial  succession, 
shall  supersede  the  strains  of  their  immediate  prede- 
cessors. 

The  pre-eminence  which  the  above-named,  and  a 
few  others,  have  held,  and  must  continue  to  hold,  is 
scarcely  more  owing  to  their  superior  talents  than 
to  some  felicity,  which  may  be  called  good  fortune, 
either  in  the  originality  of  their  style,  the  choice  of 
their  subjects,  or  the  lucky  combination  of  both, — 
and  that,  not  in  all,  nor  even  in  their  largest  per- 
formances, but  in  some  portion  only,  on  which  their 
better  planets  shone  at  the  conception,  and  their 
better  genius  presided  over  the  birth.  This  circum- 
stance also  (irrespective  of  other  contingencies) 
gives  the  few  indestructible  compositions  of  those 
master-spirits  of  elder  times  an  importance  in  a 
moral  and  intellectual  point  of  view,  which  no  other 
literary  works  of  their  own,  and  still  less  those  of 
rivals  (who  may  have  otherwise  been  their  equals 
or  superiors),  can  claim.  In  these  they  have  built 
monuments  upon  rocks  above  the  high-water  mark 
of  time,  which  the  flood  of  years  (amid  perpetual 
vicissitudes,  perpetually  advancing),  shall  never  over- 
whelm. 

Poetic  Aspirations  and  Pursuits. 

Rare,  however,  as  attainment  to  the  highest 
honours  in  literature  may  be,  there  is  no  reason  to 
believe  that  the  compositions  of  any  poet  equal  in 
rank  to  those  unapproachable  ancients,  and  those 
ji  surpass  able  moderns,  already  named,  have  been 
/ost  in  the  wreck  of  time  past.  Every  civilized  age 
Droduces  its  poets  of  the  second  order,  who  neces- 
t?arily  attract  most  of  the  admiration  of  their  con- 
iemporavies,  without  injustice  to  those  of  the  same 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTER.  189 

standard,  who  preceded  them,  and  whose  fame,  hav- 
ing passed  the  full,  by  an  irreversible  law  of  nature 
wanes  till  it  becomes  extinct,  never  to  be  renewed. 
Yet,  since  the  peerage  of  Parnassus  is  not  limited 
by  the  constitution  of  the  commonwealth,  and  the 
chance  of  two  hundred  thousand  miUions  to  one, 
though  fearful  odds,  does  not  imply  absolute  impossi- 
bility of  any  new  aspirant  reaching  that  dignity, 
moreover,  as  there  has  been  one  Homer,  Pindar^ 
Virgil,  Horace,  &c.  in  that  number  of  human  beings, 
there  may  be  another,  and  who  knows  but  I  am  he  1 
So  reasons  every  young  poet,  in  whose  breast  has 
been  once  fairly  kindled  that  spark  which  flames 
up,  though  the  fuel  be  but  stubble,  for  immortality. 
No  feeling,  no  passion  of  our  nature  is  so  easily  and 
exquisitely  quickened,  so  deeply  and  intensely  cher- 
ished, so  late  and  reluctantly  abandoned.  It  is  some- 
times awakened  on  the  mother's  knee, — 

"  I  lisp'd  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came." 

Pope. 

It  is  only  foregone  at  the  brink  of  the  grave,  where, 
as  the  lover  to  his  mistress,  the  poet  to  his  muse, 
exclaims  with  his  last  breath, 

"  Te  teneam  moriens,  deficiente  manu." 

TiBULLUS. 

"  Dying  I'll  hold  thee  with  a  failing  hand." 

Might  it  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  the  desire 
of  establishing  an  indestructible  name,  by  the  incal- 
culable uncertainty  of  success,  would  be  so  repressed 
in  all,  that  none,  even  among  those  who  were  gifted 
with  the  requisite  powers,  would  ever  achieve  it 
from  defect  of  adequate  exert'  ml  To  this  it  may 
be  answered,  that  hope  is  al'  ays  bold,  energetic, 
and  persevering,  in  proportion  to  the  conceived 
magnitude  of  its  object ;  and  the  difficulties  which 
dishearten  him  who  calculates,  only  urge  him  who 


190  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTER. 

presinnes  to  more  resolute  and  indefatigable  pursuit 
Hence,  it  is  the  number  only,  not  the  ardour,  of  self- 
confident  candidates  for  posthumous  fame,  which  is 
lessened  by  the  unimaginable  disparity  between  the 
hazard  of  acquiring  and  the  probability  of  missing  it. 
Few,  therefore,  even  among  those  who  are  called 
poets,  fix  their  hopes  or  aims  quite  so  high  as  has 
been  stated  ;  and  of  those  few,  just  so  many  appear 
for  a  while  to  have  reached  the  meridian,  as  to  in 
duce  more,  in  every  age,  to  risk  the  glorious  venture, 
in  w^hich  even  to  miscarry  is  to  fall  from  the  chariot 
of  the  sun. 

Among  those,  who  are  in  truth  so  magnificently 
endowed,  that  they  seem  to  have  been  sent  into  the 
world  to  enlarge  and  enlighten  the  compass  of  human 
intellect,  to  adorn  and  exalt  the  sphere  of  human 
enjoyment, — among  those  who,  like  the  youthful 
Samson,  in  the  camp  of  Dan,  feel  the  early  movings 
of  a  mighty  spirit  within  them  indicating  the  supe- 
riority, and  prompting  them  to  the  trial,  of  their 
prowess, — it  is  deeply  to  be  lamented  that  so  many, 
like  the  same  Samson,  should  spend  their  strength  in 
dalliance,  or  waste  it  in  miprofitable  achievements, 
instead  of  employing  it  for  the  benefit, — may  we 
not  say,  for  the  salvation  1 — of  their  fellow-creatures. 
Genius  is  an  awful  trust,  and  when  powers  like  those 
of  the  Hebrew  champion's  are  abused,  they  frs- 
quently  recoil,  like  his,  in  self-destruction  upon  their 
possessors'  heads.  Nothing  can  endure,  even  in  this 
"  naughty  world,"  but  virtue.  To  profit  mankind  a 
poet  must  please  them  ;  but  unless  he  profits  them, 
he  will  not  please  them  long.  Every  age  has  its 
fashion  of  licentiousness,  and  will  have  its  peculiar 
panders  to  vice,  reckless  of  the  profligacy  of  the 
ancients,  and  deaf  to  the  songs  of  seducers,  whose 
ribaldry  has  become  as  obsolete  as  the  laced  waist- 
coats, point-cravats,  and  full-bottomed  periwigs  of 
Charles  the  Second's  day.  It  would  not,  perhaps,  be 
too  hardy  to  affirm,  that  whatever  may  have  been  the 


THE    POETICAL    CMAUACTKR.  191 

case  formerly,  r-r  whatever  flagrant,  exceptions  may 
be  quoted,  of  Ti»:':iera  date, — there  is  ?'cv>  scarcely 
any  alternative  left  between  "  an  honest  lame"  and 
"  none."  No  iivhig  writer  can  hope  for  in\mortality 
in  its  only  enviable  earthly  sense,  who  does  not  oc- 
cupy his  talents  on  subjects  worthy  of  them,  and,  at 
least,  not  disreputable  to  their  Author, — tne  Father 
of  lights  !  The  follies,  the  sins,  and  the  misfortunes 
of  poets  have,  indeed,  been  proverbial  since  the 
proudest  days  of  Greece,  I  shall  neither  expatiate 
upon  these,  nor  palliate  them ;  but  a  word  or  two 
may  be  expedient. 

In  youth,  when  we  first  become  enamoured  of 
the  works  of  the  great  poets,  we  naturally  imagine 
hose  must  themselves  be  the  happiest  of  men  who 
can  communicate  such  unknov/n  and  unimaginsd 
emotions  of  pleasure,  as  seem  at  once  to  create  and 
to  gratify  a  new  sense  within  us ;  while^  by  the  y^:-  j.^'ic 
of  undefinable  art,  they  render  the  loveiie?r  sc6r:<^s 
of  nature  more  lovely,  make  the  most  inditferent 
topics  interesting,  and  from  sorrow  itself  awaken  a 
sympathy  of  joy  unutterably  sublime  and  soothing. 
He  who  in  early  years  has  never  been  so  smitten 
with  the  love  of  sacred  song  as  to  have  wished,  nay, 
to  have  dreamed,  that  he  was  a  poet, — as  Hesiod  is 
said  to  have  done,  though  few,  like  him,  awaking, 
have  found  their  dream  fulfilled, — is  a  stranger  to 
one  of  the  purest,  noblest,  and  most  enduring  sources 
of  mortal  blessedness.  When,  however,  glowing 
with  enthusiastic  admiration,  we  turn  from  the 
writings  to  the  lives  of  these  exalted  beings,  we  find 
that  they  were  not  only  liable  to  the  same  infirmities 
with  ourselves,  but  that,  with  regard  to  many  of 
them,  those  vehement  passions,  which  they  could 
kindle  and  quell  at  pleasure  in  the  bosoms  of  others, 
ruled  and  raged  with  ungovernable  fury  in  their  own, 
hurrying  them,  amid  alternate  penury  and  profusion, 
honour  and  abasement,  through  the  vicissitudes  of  a 
miserable  life,  to  a  premature,  deplorable,  and  some- 


192  THK    POKTICAL    CHARACTEK. 

times  a  desperate  death.  On  the  other  hand,  among 
the  more  amiable  of  this  ill-starred  race,  those  finer 
sensibilities  which  warm  the  hearts  of  their  readers 
with  ineffable  delight  were  to  the  possessors  slov/ 
and  fatal  fires,  feeding  upon  their  vitals,  while  they 
languished  in  solitude,  and  sank  to  the  grave  in  ob- 
scurity, after  bequeathing  to  posterity  an  inheritance, 
in  the  unrewarded  products  of  their  genius,  to  endure 
through  many  generations,  and  cast  at  once  a  glory 
and  a  shade  on  the  era  in  which  they  flourished,  as 
the  phrase  is, — in  vv^hich  they  perished,  as  it  ought 
to  be. 

On  the  whole,  then, — though  it  is  a  frigid  and  dis- 
heartening conclusion, — it  is  v/ell  when  a  youth  of 
ardent  hope  and  splendid  promise,  who  has  been 
allured  into  the  "primrose  path  of  dalliance"  with 
the  Muses,  by  the  songs  of  their  most  favoured  lov- 
ers, heard  like  the  nightingale's,  unseen, — it  is  well 
when  such  a  one,  in  due  time  (and  before  being 
irrecoverably  bewildered),  is  alarmed  and  compelled 
to  retreat  by  the  afiecting  and  humbling  sight  of 
those  lovers,  in  the  characters  of  men,  frequently 
of  low  estate,  neglected  Oi"  contemned  by  the  multi- 
tude, trampled  down  by  the  pride  of  wealth  and 
power, — desponding  martyrs  of  sloth,  or  suicidal 
slaves  of  intemperance.  If  ever  there  was  an  ex- 
ample of  paramount  genius,  like  the  first  created 
lion,  bursting  from  the  earth, 

"  Pawing  to  get  free 
His  hinder  parts  ;" — Milton. 

then  rampant,  ?.nd  bounding  abroad,  and  "  shaking 
his  brinded  mane,"  m  ail  the  joy  of  new-found  life  ; 
— if  ever  there  was  such  an  example,  calculated  to 
quicken  souls  as  sordid  as  the  dod,  and  make  them 
start  up  from  behind  the  plough  into  poets,  the  story 
of  Robert  Burns  affords  it.  And  if  ever  there  was  a 
warning  of  the  degradation  :uul  (lestruction  of  talents 


THE    THEMES    OF    POETRY.  193 

of  the  liighest  order,  calculated  to  scare  the  boldest 
and  vainest  adventurer  from  the  fields  of  poesy,  the 
story  of  Burns  presents  that  terrific  warning;  that 
flaming-  sword  turning  every  way,  to  forbid  entrance 
into  that  paradise  of  fancied  bliss,  but  real  wo,  in 
which  he  rioted  and  fell.  But  as  I  propose  to  allude 
further  to  his  career  in  the  close  of  this  paper,  at 
present  I  hasten  to  notice^(very  imperfectly,  indeed) 
the  themes  of  poetry,  and  its  influences. 

The  Themes  of  Poetry. 

It  is  an  affecting  consideration,  that  more  than 
half  the  interest  of  human  life  arises  out  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  our  fellow-creatures.  The  mind  is  not 
satisfied  alone  with  the  calm  of  intellectual  enjoy- 
ments, nor  the  heart  with  tender  and  passionate 
emotions,  nor  the  senses  themselves  with  voluptuous 
indulgence.  The  mind  must  be  occasionally  roused 
by  powerful  and  mysterious  events,  in  v/hich  the 
ways  of  Providence  are  so  hidden,  that  the  wisdom 
and  goodness  of  God  are  liable  to  be  questioned  by 
ignorance  or  presumption,  while  faith  and  patience 
must  be  silent  and  adore :  the  heart  must  sometimes 
be  probed  by  sympathies  so  rending,  that  they  only 
fall  short  of  the  actual  agony  to  which  they  are 
alUed;  the  senses  cannot  ahvays  resist  the  unde- 
finable  temptation  to  yield  themselves  to  voluntary 
torture. 

Among  the  crowds  that  follow  a  criminal  to  exe- 
cution, is  there  one  who  goes,  purely,  for  the  plea- 
sure of  witnessing  the  violent  death  of  a  being  like 
himself,  sensible  even  under  the  gallows  to  the  in- 
convenience of  a  shovv^er  of  rain,  and  cowering  under 
the  clergyman's  umbrella,  to  listen  for  the  last  word 
of  the  last  prayer  that  shall  ever  be  offered  for  him  ] 
No ;  some  may  be  indifferent,  and  a  few  may  be 
hardened,  but  not  one  can  rejoice  ;  while  the  mul- 
titude, v;ho  are  melted  with  genuine  compassion^ 


194  TUC    THKMES    OF    POETRY. 

nevertheless  gaze  from  the  earliest  glimpse  of  his 
figure  ou  the  scaffold,  to  the  latest  convulsions  of  his 
frame,  with  feelings,  in  which  the  strange  gratifica- 
tion of  curiosity,  too  intense  to  be  otherwise  ap- 
peased, so  tempers  the  horror  of  the  spectacle,  that 
it  can  not  only  be  endured  on  the  spot,  but  every 
circumstance  of  it  recalled  in  cool  memory,  and  in> 
vested  with  a  character  of  romantic  adventure. 

Can  any  sorrow  of  affection  exceed,  in  poignancy, 
the  anguish  and  anxiety  of  a  mother,  watching  the 
progress  of  consumption  in  the  person  of  an  only 
son,  in  whom  her  husband's  image  lives,  though  he 
is  dead,  and  looks  as  he  once  looked  when  young, 
and  yet  a  lover  ;  the  son  in  whom  also  her  present 
bliss,  her  future  hopes  on  earth,  are  all  bound  up,  as 
in  the  bundle  of  life  ?  No ;  there  is  a  worm  that 
dies  not  in  her  bosom,  from  the  first  moment  when 
she  feels  its  bite,  on  discovering  the  hectic  rose  upon 
his  cheek,  that  awakens  a  thousand  unutterable  fears, 
— not  one  of  which  in  the  issue  is  unrealized, — till 
the  last  withering  lily  there,  as  he  lies  in  his  coffin, 
with  the  impress  on  his  countenance  of  Death's  sig- 
net, bearing,  even  to  the  eye  of  love,  this  inscription, 
— "  Bury  me  out  of  thy  sight !" — Yet,  of  all  the 
pangs  that  she  has  experienced,  there  is  not  one 
which  she  did  not  choose  even  for  its  own  sake, — 
she  IV ould  not  he  com(oYied\ — there  is  not  one  which 
she  would  have  foregone  for  any  delight  under 
heaven,  except  that  which  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  know — his  recovery ;  and  while  she  lives,  and 
while  she  loves,  the  recollections  that  endear  him 
to  her  happiest  feelings  are  heightened  almost  to  joy 
in  grief,  by  the  remembrance  of  how  nmch  she  suf- 
fered for  him. 

To  the  man  of  thought,  all  that  is  terrible  and 
afflictive  in  nature,  in  society,  in  imagination,  is  food 
for  his  mind,  sucli  as  spirits  alone  of  liigher  tem- 
perament can  fully  taste  and  turn  into  luxury  ;  but 
iB'hicli  inferior  ones  can  re]ish»  too,  mi  no  smajj  nica- 


THE    THEMES    OF    POETRY.  105 

sure.  Earthquakes,  volcanoes,  lightning-,  tempest, 
famine,  plague,  and  inundation  ;  hard  labour,  penur}^, 
thirst,  hunger,  nakedness,  disease,  insanity,  death ; 
the  existence  of  moral  evil ;  the  deceitfulness  and  - 
desperate  wickedness  of  man's  heart ;  envy,  malice, 
hatred,  and  all  uncharitableness  ; — the  commission 
and  the  punishment  of  crimes  against  society ;  op- 
pression, bondage,  impotent  resistance  of  injustice  ; 
with  all  the  wrongs  and  woes  of  a  corrupt  or  a 
tyrannical  government ;  the  desolations  of  foreign 
war ;  the  miseries  of  civil  strife  :  to  sum  up  all,  the 
troubles  to  which  we  are  born,  the  calamities  which 
we  bring  upon  ourselves,  the  outrages  which  we 
inflict  on  each  other,  the  judgments  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence on  individuals,  families,  nations,  the  v/hole 
human  race, — each  class,  and  the  whole  accumula- 
tion of  these  awakening  and  appalling  evils,  not  only  ^ 
afford  inexhaustible  subjects  of  sublime  and  inspiring  "^ 
contemplation  to  the  sage,  and  themes  for  the  poet ; 
but  by  the  manner  in  which  they  affect  the  entire 
progeny  of  Adam,  prove  that  more  than  half  the  in- 
terest of  mortal  life  arises  out  of  the  sufferings  of 
our  fellow-creatures. 

The  wisdom  and  kindness  of  God  are  most  gra- 
ciously manifested  in  thus  educing  good  from  evil. 
There  is  so  much  floating  and  perpetual  distress  in 
the  world,  and  in  every  part  of  it,  that  were  a  person 
of  the  firmest  nerve  to  know  all  that  is  enduring  for 
one  hour  only,  in  one  place, — the  present  hour,  at 
this  moment,  throughout  this  great  city, — and  were 
he  able  to  sympathize  with  it,  in  every  case,  and  aU 
at  once,  as  though  the  whole  were  under  his  eyes, 
within  hearing,  in  his  neighbourhood,  in  his  family, 
— his  spirit  would  assuredly  sink  under  it,  aud  if  life 
were  prolonged,  and  reason  not  totally  overthrown, 
he  would  never  relapse  into  gayety.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  is  so  much  selfishness  in  our  nature,  that 
if  the  groans  of  the  whole  creation  around  could 
neither   reach  our  ears  nor  touch  our  hearts,  we 


106  THE    THEMES    OF    POETRY. 

should  bo  of  all  animals  the  most  insensate,  the  most 
ferocious.  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  afflicted  in  the 
afflictions  of  others,  but  it  would  be  death  or  madness 
to  be  so  beyond  that  undefinable  line  which  Provi- 
dence has  drawn,  and  within  whicli  we  are  uncon- 
sciously kept  by  the  power  that  wheels  the  planets 
in  their  orbits,  and  suffers  not  a  sparrow  to  fall  to  the 
ground  without  permission. 

While  the  last  paragraph  was  passing  through  my 
pen  upon  paper,  a  fly  glanced  through  the  candle- 
flame,  fell  backwards  into  the  liquid  roimd  the  wick, 
and  lay  weltering  there  for  several  seconds  before 
the  mercy  of  a  trembling  hand  could  inflict  a  speedier 
death  ^han  that  which  it  was  enduring.  What  an 
age  of  misery  might  have  been  condensed  within 
those  few  moments  to  the  poor  fly  is  inconceivable 
to  man ;  but  could  this  be  ascertained  by  some 
curious  inquirer,  the  nightly  burnings  alive  of  flies 
alone  would  be  sufficient  to  render  his  own  existence 
miserable ;  yet  who  would  choose  to  be  utterly 
regardless  of  the  sufferings  of  the  meanest  insect, 
the  structure  of  whose  frame  is  a  miracle  of  Omni- 
potence 1  and  vdiatever  cold-blooded  skepticism 
may  insinuate  to  the  contrary,  whose  sensibilities 
are  probably  so  acute,  that,  in  the  language  of  thfi 
poet, — 

"  E'en  the  poor  beetle  that  v/e  tread  on  feels 
As  great  a  pang  as  when  a  giant  dies." 

And  thus  is  man  so  ''fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made,"  as  to  require  for  the  health  of  his  body,  the 
expansion  of  his  intellect,  and  the  purifying  of  his 
heart,  other  and  sterner  excitements  than  those  of 
either  sensual  and  enervating  pleasure,  or  of  placid 
and  serene  enjoyment.  From  his  own  personal 
maladies,  and  from  a  strong  but  well-governed  sym- 
pathy Vv^ith  tlie  fiery  trials  of  his  fellow-creatures 
of  ;iil  kinds  and  conditionr-.  he  niav  derive,  if  not 


THK    THEMES    OF    POETRY.  197 

positive  happiness,  the  means  at  least  of  infinitely 
increasing  his  happiness,  by  learning  to  suffer  with 
resignation,  by  loosening  his  affections  from  the 
world,  and  by  having  his  heart  and  his  treasure  in 
heaven.  The  famous  lines  of  Lucretius,  at  the 
opening  of  his  second  book,  De  Rerum  Natura,  have 
been  so  often  quoted  and  criticised,  that  I  shall 
merely  allude  to  them  as  beautifully  bearing  on  the 
subject  before  us. 

Let  us  take  a  signal  instance  to  illustrate  the 
general  argument.  It  is  twice  seven  years,  or  nearly 
so,  since  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Wales,  and  her  new-born  offspring;  the  former,  the 
most  beloved  person  in  the  realm ;  the  latter,  the 
heir  of  the  greatest  throne  in  the  w^orld,  though  it 
lived  not  long  enough  to  receive  even  a  name  to  be 
inscribed  upon  its  coffin;  so  uncertain  are  the  des- 
tinies of  man,  when  most  absolutely  decreed  by 
himself  or  his  fellow-mortals.  On  that  occasion  the 
grief  of  the  public  was  deep,  sincere,  and  lasting; 
but  who  can  doubt  that  the  interest — using  the  word 
in  its  favourite  sentimental  sense — who  can  doubt 
that  the  interest  excited  by  these  events  was  trans- 
cendently  more  sublime  and  affecting  than  would 
have  been  awakened  by  the  loss  of  the  same  per- 
sonages under  circumstances  less  excruciating  to 
the  common  feelings  of  humanity,  or  less  fatal  to 
the  fond  expectations  of  a  generous  people?  In 
proportion  to  the  agony  was  the  interest,  and  in  pro- 
portion to  the  interest  was  the  enjoyment,  by  those 
who  bore  a  part  in  the  universal  affliction.  There 
was  enjoyment  in  remembering  and  repeating,  in 
tones  of  regret,  the  virtu-es  and  graces  of  the 
Daughter  of  England, — there  was  enjoyment  in  mak- 
ing a  Sabbath  of  the  day  of  her  burial, — enjoymen'. 
in  listening  to  pious  improvements  from  the  pulpit 
of  the  sovereign  dispensation  of  Providence, — el^ 
joyment  in  mingling  tears  and  lamentations  witn 
tlie  whole    British   people,   at   liic   hour  when   her 


ins  TIIK    THKMKS    OF     POP^TRY. 

relics  were  laid  in  the  grave, — enjoyment  in  compos 
ing  and  perusing  tiie  strains  of  eloquence  and  poesy 
that  celebrated  her  glory  and  her  fall, — and  there 
was  enjoyment  in  every  recollection  of  her  name, 
after  the  bitterness  of  death  had  passed  away,  and 
her  memory  had  been  silently  enshrined  in  hearts, 
where  it  had  been  fondly  hoped  that  she  would  one 
day  be  enthroned. 

Thus  from  the  greatest  felt  calamity  which  this 
country  had  suffered  for  ages,  there  was  communi- 
cated the  greatest  benefic  of  the  kind  on  record  to 
the  minds  of  millions,  by  means  of  a  chastening  but 
benignant  excitement,  which  produced  a  happier  in- 
fluence on  tlie  moral  character  of  the  people  than  all 
the  victoriGs  of  ten  years'  war  had  done,  or  the  vic- 
tories of  tea  more  cculd  now  accomplish  ;  for  it 
quickeaea  latc  expression,  if  not  into  immediate 
existence,  more  loyaL  patriotic,  compassionate,  and 
devotional  feelings  than  any  national  event,  either 
prosperous  or  adverse,  had  done  since  Britain  ^^^.g 
a  kina-dom.  When  the  mighty  are  put  down  froio 
their  seats,  we  gaze  at  the  eminence  whenc^e  i'di-y 
are  fallen,  as  vv3  should  upon  the  cliff  where  an  ea^le 
at  rest  had  been  struck  dead  by  lightning  in  our  sight, 
— the  vp.ry  void  being  then  more  conspicuous  than 
was  ihe  living  presence.  When  death  brings  down 
such  noble  marks  in  the  highest  places,  his  povver 
is  felt  by  reaction  upon  the  fears  and  forebodings 
of  all  classes  downward  in  gradation.  We  are  so 
accustomed  to  read,  and  speak,  and  think  of  death 
as  a  real  personage,  with  his  darts  striking  down, 
indiscriminately,  persons  of  all  ages,  ranks,  and  con- 
ditions,— one  of  whom  is  said  to  be  pierced  every 
moment,  his  shafts  flying  incessantly,  and  in  all 
directions, — that,  v/ithout  any  violent  efhrt  of  mind, 
we  may  consider  him  as  an  "  archer,"  indefatigable 
as  well  as  "  insatiate,"  who,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
has  never  once  missed  a  victim  against  whom  he 
drew  his  bow,  nor  amonij  tens  of  thousands  of  mill- 


THE     THKMKS    OF     FOKTItY.  199 

lOus,  which,  since  the  creation,  liave  been  appointed 
to  him  for  his  prey,  has  he  ever  forirotten  one  ; 
those  whom  he  miffht  seem  to  have  left  behind  in 
his  march  of  destruction,  being  from  his  lengthened 
forbearance  most  obviously  exposed  to  his  next 
aim  ;  since  the  further  they  have  escaped,  the  nearer 
have  they  been  running  into  that  danger  which  in 
the  issue  must  be  met. 

Death  is  the  chief  hero  of  poetry,  though  life  be 
its  perpetual  theme;  and  t^king  advantage  of  the 
strange  affinity  between  pain  aud  pleasure,  to  which 
reference  has  been  made,  the  main  subjects  of  verse 
have  been  selected  from  the  sufferings  of  man  in 
every  stage  of  his  earthly  existence,  under  every 
aspect  of  external  circumstances,  and  through  every 
form  of  society.  The  noblest  lessons  are  Taught  in 
the  school  of  adversity,  and  communicated  by  the 
examples  of  those  who  have  learned  them  there, 
to  those  who  have  not  been  so  disciplined,  in  song 
rather  than  in  history.     Cowley  says : — 


"  So  when  the  wisest  poets  seek, 

In  all  their  liveliest  colours,  to  set  forth 

A.  picture  of  heroic  worth, 

The  pious  Trojan,  or  the  prudent  Greek  ; 

They  feed  him,  not  with  nectar,  nor  the  meat 

That  cannot,  without  jo}'',  be  eat ; 

But,  in  the  cold  of  want,  and  storms  of  adverse  chance, 

They  harden  liis  young  virtue  by  degrees ; 

The  beauteous  drop  first  into  ice  doth  freeze, 

Alia  into  solid  crystal  doth  advance. 
• 
"  His  murder'd  friends  and  kindred  he  does  see, 

And  from  his  flaming  country  flee ; 

Much  is  he  toss'd  by  sea  and  land. 

Does  long  the  force  of  angry  gods  withstand : 

He  does  long  troubles  and  long  wars  sustain, 

Ere  he  his  fatal  birthright  gain : 

— With  not  less  toil  and  labour  can 

Destiny  build  up  a  great  man. 

Who's  Avith  sufficient  virtue  fill'd 

His  ruin'd  country  to  rebuild." 


200  THK    THF.MES    OF    POJOIRY. 

If  it  be  the  business  of  tragedy,  as  A/istotle 
hIIovvs,  to  purify  the  soul  by  pity  and  terror,  then 
out  of  the  ills  of  the  universe  may  poetry  of  every 
kind  extract  balm  to  heal,  or  comfort  to  allay  them. 
Thus,  in  a  new  and  admirable  sense,  is  the  riddle  of 
Sameon  illustrated.  In  the  carcass  of -the  young 
lion,  which  roared  against  him,  and  v/hich  he  rent  as 
he  would  tear  a  kid,  when  he  turned  aside  to  see  it, 
behold  a  swarm  of  bees  and  honey  in  it !  "  Out  of 
the  eater  came  forth  meat,  and  out  of  the  strong 
came  forth  sweetness."  Out  of  grief,  misfortune, 
bereavement,  the  poet  brings  gladness,  profit,  con- 
solation. There  is  no  romance,  no  poetry  in  any 
of  these  things  themselves  to  those  who  suffer 
(whatever  there  be  to  witnesses  of  them),  till  they 
are  past.  Sickness  and  death  are  cruel  and  fearful 
visitations ;  it  is  sickness  removed,  death  averted, 
vv'hich  makes  health  enjoyment,  and  escape  renova- 
tion. The  return  to  this  lovely  world  of  him  who 
has  "  shrieked  and  hovered  o'er  the  dread  abyss" 
that  divides  time  and  eternity,  is  more  than  life, 
—it  is  life  from  the  dead.  Then,  then,  the  ro- 
mance and  the  poetry  begin,  where  the  awful  reali- 
ties end. 

When  Hezekiah  was  sick  unto  death,  and  a  mes- 
sage from  the  prophet  said,  "  Set  thine  house  in 
order,  for  thou  shalt  die,  and  not  live  ;"  then  Heze- 
kiah turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  prayed  unto  the 
Lord,  and  pleaded  hard,  and  wrestled  in  agony  of 
supplication  for  a  reprieve.  "  And  Hezekiah  wept 
sore,"  But  when  his  prayer  had  been  heard,  his 
tears  seen,  and  fifteen  year's  were  added  to  his  life, 
then  was  his  mourning  changed  into  minstrelsy,  and 
the  fear  and  anguish  which  had  previously  over- 
whelmed his  spirit  gave  way  to  transport.  Then, 
likewise,  he  could  expatiate  with  delighted  remi- 
niscence, and  in  the  most  delicate  and  touching 
strains,  on  those  incidents  of  his  extremity  which 


TIIF,    THF.MKS    OK    P()I;TRV.  201 

had  been  all  horror  and  darkness  while  they  were 
present.  J3ut  in  the  joy  of  (.'onvalescence,  he  recalled 
the  very  circumstances  and  sentiments  which  had 
been  stru'rg'ling  and  despairino^  pangs  in  his  heart 
before,  and  winged  them  with  words  that  flew  up  to 
heaven's  gate  in  notes  of  gratitude  and  praise  : — 

"The  writing  of  Hezekiah,  king  of  Judah,  when 
he  had  been  sick,  and  was  recovered  from  his  sick- 
ness. I  said  in  the  cutting  off  of  my  days,  I  shall 
go  to  the  gates  of  the  grave  ;  I  am  deprived  of  the 
residue  of  my  years.  1  said,  I  shall  not  see  the 
Lord,  even  the  Lord,  in  the  land  of  the  living;  1 
shall  behold  man  no  more,  with  the  inhabitants  of 
the  world.  Mine  age  is  departed,  and  is  removed 
from  me  as  a  shepherd's  tent."  *****«!  am 
oppressed  ;  O  Lord !  undertake  for  me,"  ***** 
"  Behold,  for  peace  I  had  great  bitterness  ;  but  Thou 
hast,  in  love  to  my  soul,  delivered  it  from  the  pit  of 
corruption ;  Thou  hast  cast  all  my  sins  behind  thy 
back.  The  grave  cannot  praise  Thee  ;  Death  can- 
not celebrate  Thee."  *  *  *  "  The  living,  the  living, 
he  shall  praise  Thee,  as  I  do  at  this  day." — Isaiah 
xxxviii.  9-19. 

The  main  themes  of  poetry  might  be  summed  up 
in  a  few  phrases,  or  expanded  into  an  index  to  a 
cyclopedia.  I  s'hall  particularize  two  only  in  this 
place. 

War, — the  war  of  glory,  in  which  ambition  tram- 
ples down  justice  and  humanity,  to  raise  a  single 
tomb  for  a  favourite  hero  upon  a  Golgotha  of 
nations  ;  and  war, — the  war  of  freedom,  in  which 
death  is  preferred  to  chains,  and  victory  is  the  eman- 
cipation or  the  security  of  millions.  War  also 
assumes  a  thousand  vulgar  and  atrocious  forms  ;  but 
these  two  alone  are  poetical  ones.  War  has  been 
the  chief  burden  of  epic  poetry  in  ages  past,  how- 
ever perils  and  labours,  sufferings  and  conflicts,  by 
land  and  by  water,  may  have  been  intermingled  with 
battle  and  devastation,  according  to  the  subject  which 
Q 


202  THE    TIIEMI':S    OF    POETRY. 

was  to  be  dignified  and  adorned  above  the  strain  of 
history,  by  the  embelUshments  of  fiction  and  the 
music  of  verse.  But  the  poets  who  have  succeeded 
in  this  highest  and  most  difficult  field  are  those  who 
selected  their  heroes  and  their  scenes  of  action  from 
the  traditions  rather  than  the  chronicles  of  times 
long  antecedent.  The  most  splendid  achievements 
of  contemporaries  can  receive  no  additional  lustre 
from  being  celebrated  in  heroic  narrative.  Truth 
repels  the  touch  of  fable  as  the  contamination  of 
falsehood  in  cases  where  the  matters  of  fact  are  so 
fully  known,  or  so  easily  ascertained,  that  the  com- 
mon sense  of  mankind  will  receive  nothing  unauthen- 
ticated  in  reference  to  them.  Lucan  fell  with  his 
hero  in  the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott 
himself  was  vanquished  bi/  his  on  the  plain  of  Wa- 
terloo. The  fight  on  the  latter  must  for  ever  rank 
among  the  proudest  examples  of  military  ascendence ; 
but,  for  a  thousand  years  to  come,  it  can  hardly  be 
seen  (except  by  incidental  glimpses,  such  as  Lord 
Byron  has  caught  of  it  in  the  Third  Canto  of  "  Childe 
Harold,")  in  an  aspect  fit  for  poetical  aggrandize- 
ment. In  lyric  song,  however, — as  in  the  "  Hohen- 
linden"  of  Campbell,  and  Wolfe's  "  Burial  of  Sir 
John  Moore," — the  glories  even  of  modern  warfare 
may  be  set  forth  in  lays  which  rival  or  eclipse  all 
that  antiquity  has  left  of  the  kind. 

But  love,  in  all  ages,  and  among  all  people,  has 
been  the  principal  source  of  poetic  inspiration. 
Love. — the  love  of  country,  our  native  country ; 
love, — the  love  of  home,  our  own  home,  its  chari- 
ties, endearments,  relationships  ;  love, — the  love 
which  men  ought  to  bear  to  their  brethren,  of  every 
kindred,  realm,  and  clime  upon  earth  ;  love, — the 
love  of  virtue,  which  elevates  man  to  his  true  stand- 
ard under  heaven  ;  and,  with  reverence  be  it  spoken, 
love, — the  love  of  God,  who  is  Love.  I  add  once 
more,  love, — that  love  which  is  the  prime,  perpetual, 
everyoungand  fresh,  and  unexhausted  theme  of  bards 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  POETRY.       203 

in  each  successive  generation  as  though  it  had  never 
been  sung  before  ; — the  love  which  Adam  bare  to  Eve 
in  Paradise;  the  love  with  which  Eve  compensated 
Adam  in  the  wilderness  for  the  loss  of  that  earthly 
Paradise  which  he  seems  to  have  forfeited  from 
excess  of  love  to  her.  I  cannot  be  wrong  ;  I  cannot 
be  misunderstood,  when  I  speak  thus  of  that  ineffa- 
ble tenderness  which  includes  whatever  makes  hu- 
man love  sweet,  and  lasting,  and  pecuHar  ;  the  busi- 
ness of  the  heart,  the  subject  of  hope,  fear,  sorrow, 
rapture,  despondency,  despair, — each  in  turn,  some- 
times altogether  :  for  so  mysteriously  mingled  is  the 
cup  of  affection,  that  the  bitterest  infusion  will  occa- 
sionally dash  it  t-ith  intenser  deliciousness.  All  the 
vicissitudes  of  this  love  are  pre-eminently  poetical 
in  every  change  of  colour,  form,  and  feeling  which 
it  undergoes,  being  intimately  associated  with  all 
that  is  transporting  or  afflictive,  bright  and  pure, 
grand  and  terrible,  peaceful,  holy,  and  happy  in 
mortal  existence.  On  this  theme,  how  gloriously 
soever  they  have  often  excelled,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  poets  have  more  grievously  offended  than 
on  any  other.  Where  they  might  have  done  most 
good  they  have  done  most  evil.  I  forbear  to  expa- 
tiate here  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  taste  and  morals 
have  been  equally  vitiated,  and  genius  itself  debased, 
in  proportion  as  it  has  thus  been  prostituted. 

The  Influence  of  Poetry. 

Poetry  possesses  a  paramount  degree  of  influence, 
from  the  fact,  that  sentiments  communicated  in 
verse  are  identified  with  the  very  words  through 
which  they  have  been  received,  and  which  fre- 
quently, more  than  the  character  of  the  sentiments 
themselves,  give  force,  perspicuity,  and  permanence 
to  the  latter.  The  language  and  its  import  being 
remembered  together,  the  instruction  conveyed  is 
rendered    more    distinct    and   indelible.      The    dis- 


204  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY. 

courses  of  the,  orator,  with  all  their  beauty  of  embel- 
lishment, ardour  of  diction,  and  cogency  of  argument, 
are  recollected  rather  by  their  effect  than  in  their 
reality  :  what  he  has  conceived  and  expressed  with 
transcendent  ability,  we  call  to  mind  in  its  general 
bearings  only,  and  repeat  to  ourselves  or  to  others, 
by  imperfect  imitation  and  in  very  incompetent  ver- 
biage. This,  of  necessity,  must  be  far  inferior  'n 
emphasis  and  clearness  to  the  original  composition, 
whether  that  were  spontaneous  or  elaborate  ;  and  if 
such  be  the  case  with  eloquence,  much  more  will  it 
be  so  with  history,  philosophy,  and  prose  literature 
at  large,  from  which  the  narratives,  speculations, 
and  reasonings,  can  only  be  recalled  in  the  abstract, 
however  fascinating  in  perusal  the  style  of  the  writer 
may  be.  Of  these,  the  epitomised  matter,  moral,  or 
lesson  alone  remains  in  the  mind,  which,  being 
blended  with  our  stock  of  general  knowledge,  gene- 
ral principles,  general  motives, — thus  remotely  be- 
comes influential  on  our  conduct  and  our  lives. 

Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  takes  root  in  the 
memory  as  well  as  in  the  understanding, — not  in 
essence  only,  but  in  the  very  sounds  and  syllables 
that  incorporate  it.  This  every  one  can  testify  from 
experience  who,  as  a  child,  was  taught  the  songs  of 
Dr.  Watts,  as  a  youth,  went  through  Homer  and 
Horace,  and,  as  a  man,  made  acquaintance  vi^ith  the 
native  and  foreign  literature  of  his  own  and  past 
ages.  Of  all  his  reading,  that  which  he  remembers 
most  perfectly,  and  remembers  in  the  words  of  the 
originals,  will  be  poetry;  poetry  in  the  fixed  form 
of  verse,  from  which  it  cannot  be  dissociated  with- 
out losing  half  its  beauty,  and  more  than  half  its 
influence. 

That  influence  is  further  and  incalculably  increased 
from  the  circumstance  that  itis  the  business  of  poetry 
to  invest  whatever  it  touches  with  the  hues  of  ima- 
gination, and  animate  that  which  is  susceptible  with 
tlie  warnilh  of  i)assion  ;  at  the  same  time  never  to 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  POETRY.       205 

depart  from  truth  ;  for  if  it  does,  it  departs  from 
nature,  and  its  creations  are  monsters,  as  incongru- 
ous in  themselves  as  they  are  revolting  to  good 
taste.  Noble  fictions  are  not  disguises,  but  revela- 
tions of  truth ;  shapes  which  she  assumes  to  make 
herself  visible  to  the  mind's  eye ;  indeed,  so  far  is 
legitimate  fiction  from  being  any  thing  distinct  from 
reality,  that  it  can  have  no  existence  without  it,  but 
is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  fine  ideal  of  reality. 
In  reference  to  the  lamentable  and  frequent  abuse 
of  that  best  gift  of  influence  (because  the  most 
potent,  diffusive,  and  enduring),  which  heaven  has 
bestowed  upon  the  poet  for  the  best  purposes — at 
once  to  delight  and  profit  contemporaries  and  pos- 
terity— I  may  observe,  that  he  holds  a  perilous 
talent,  on  a  fearful  responsibility,  who  can  invent, 
combine,  and  fix  with  inseparable  union,  words, 
thoughts,  and  images,  and  give  them  motion  like 
that  of  the  planets, — not  to  cease  till  the  heavens 
shall  be  dissolved,  and  the  earth,  with  the  works 
therein,  burnt  up.  Is  there  a  power  committed  to 
man  so  great  1  Is  there  one  that  can  be  more  benefi- 
cently or  more  malignantly  exercised  ?  The  deeds 
of  warriors,  the  decrees  of  princes,  the  revolutions 
of  empires,  do  not  so  much,  so  immediately,  so  per- 
manently affect  the  moral  character,  the  social  con- 
dition, the  weal  and  the  wo  of  the  human  race,  as 
the  lessons  of  wisdom  or  folly,  of  glory,  virtue,  and 
piety,  pride,  revenge,  depravity,  licentiousness,  and 
the  converse  of  these, — in  the  writings  of  those 
mysterious  beings  who  have  an  intellectual  exist- 
ence among  us,  and  rule  posterity,  not  "  from 
their  urns,"  like  dead  heroes,  whose  acts  only  are 
preserved  in  remembrance,  but  by  their  very  spirits 
living,  breathing,  speaking  in  their  works;  therein 
holding  communion  with  the  spirits  of  all  who  read 
or  hear  their  syren  or  their  seraph  strains  ;  and  thus 
becoming  good  or  evil  angels  to  successive  genera- 
tions, tempting  to    vice  and   crime,  to  misery  and 


206  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY. 

destruction ;  or  leading-  throuc^h  ways  of  pleasant 
ness  and  paths  of  peace.  Millions  of  thoughts  and 
images,  fixed  in  the  palpable  forms  of  words,  and 
put  into  perpetual  motion  by  these  benefactors  or 
scourges  of  their  species,  are  passing  down  in  the 
track  of  time,  upon  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
whole  earth,  blessing  or  cursing  the  people  of  one 
age  after  another ;  and,  let  authors  tremble  at  the 
annunciation,  perpetuating  the  righteousness  or  ag- 
gravating the  guilt  of  men,  whose  bones  are  in  the 
sepulchre  and  their  souls  in  eternity. 

Lord  Bacon,  remarking  upon  the  destruction  of 
all  other  works  of  men's  hands,  says  of  letters, — 
"  The  images  of  men's  wits  remain  unmaimed  in 
books  for  ever,  exempt  from  the  injuries  of  time, — 
because  capable  of  perpetual  renovation.  Neither 
can  they  properly  be  called  images,  because,  in  their 
way,  they  generate  still,  and  cast  forth  seeds  in  the 
minds  of  men,  raising  and  procreating  infinite  actions 
and  opinions  in  succeeding  ages ;  so  that,  if  the 
invention  of  a  ship  was  thought  so  noble  and  won- 
derful,— which  transports  riches  and  merchandise 
from  place  to  place,  and  consociates  the  most  remote 
regions  in  participation  of  their  fruits  and  commodi- 
ties— how  much  more  are  letters  to  be  magnified, 
which,  as  ships  passing  through  the  vast  sea  of 
time,  connect  the  remotest  ages  of  wits  and  inven- 
tions in  mutual  traffic  and  correspondence!" — Oj 
the  Advancement  of  Learning,  Book  i. 

In  this  commerce  of  literature,  the  Scriptures 
and  the  writings  of  divines  excepted,  the  compo- 
sitions of  the  poets  are  undoubtedly  the  most  ex- 
tensively and  abidingly  influential,  because  they 
have  had,  in  youth  at  least,  the  greatest  power 
over  the  greatest  minds;  when,  more  even  than 
history,  and  uninspired  ethics  themselves,  they  have 
tended  to  form  the  characters,  opinions,  and  actions 
of  tliose  who  lead  or  govern  the  multitude,  whether 
as  princes     warriors,  stateemen,  philosophers,  or 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY.  207 

philanthropists.  The  compositions  of  the  poets 
have  also  this  transcendent  advantag'e  over  all 
others,  that  they  are  the  solace  and  delight  of  the 
most  accomplished  of  the  finer,  feebler,  better  sex, 
whose  morals,  manners,  and  deportment  give  the 
tone  to  society  ; — not  only  as  being  themselves  (to 
speak  technically)  its  most  agreeable  component 
parts,  but  because  they  are  the  mothers  and  nurses 
of  the  rising  generation,  as  well  as  the  sisters, 
lovers,  and  companions  most  acceptable  to  the  ex- 
isting one,  at  that  time  when  the  affections  of  both 
sexes  are  gentlest,  warmest,  liveliest,  and  most 
easily  and  ineffaceably  touched,  purified,  tempered, 
and  exalted.  What  owe  we  not,  in  Britain,  at  this 
day,  to  Alfred  1 — Liberty,  property,  laws,  literature  ; 
all  that  makes  us  as  a  people  what  we  are,  and  po- 
litical society  what  it  ought  to  be.  And  who  made 
Alfred  all  that  he  became  to  his  own  age,  all  that 
he  is  to  ours  1 — She,  who  was  more  than  a  parent 
to  him.  "The  words  which  his  mother  taught 
him,"  the  songs  which  his  mother  sang  to  him,  were 
the  germs  of  thought,  genius,  enterprise,  action, 
every  thing  to  the  future  father  of  his  country.  We 
owe  to  poetry, — probably  to  rude,  humble,  but  fer- 
vent, patriotic  poetry, — all  that  we  owe  to  Alfred, 
and  all  that  he  owed  to  his  mother. 

But  poetry  makes  poets.  To  exemplify  this  gene- 
rating quality  of  poetic  influence,  by  which  it  is 
itself  transmitted  and  increased  with  every  era  of 
advancing  time,  I  shall  refer  to  the  known  history, 
character,  and  writings  of  two  individuals,  born  and 
brought  up  in  circumstances  of  life  which  were  so 
little  likely  to  awaken  and  nourish  poetic  feelings  in 
their  minds,  that  it  may  be  safely  assumed  concerning 
them,  had  they  been  born  and  brought  up  under  any 
other  circumstances,  higher  or  lower  in  social  rank, 
less  favourable  or  more  to  the  development  of 
natural  genius,  they  would  have  grown  up  into  poets, 
as  surely  as  they  grew  up  into  men.     Neither  of 


208  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY. 

tliem  was  of  the  first  order ;  the  one,  indeed  (Henry 
Kirke  White),  being  but  of  a  moderate,  the  other 
(Robert  Burns)  of  a  rare  standard  ;  but  both  of  gen- 
uine poetic  temperament. 

Henry  Kirke  White. 

Nothing  is  trifling  or  insignificant  in  childhood, 
when  every  thing  conduces  to  form  the  bias  of  an 
immortal  mind  ;  and  every  occurrence  that  awakens 
a  new  emotion  is  the  forerunner  o{  everlasting  con- 
sequences. Such  was  the  incident  mentioned  by 
Henry  Kirke  White,  that  before  he  was  six  years 
old  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  a  certain  damsel 
sing  the  affecting  ballad  of  "The  Babes  in  the 
W'ood,"  and  others,  alluded  to  in  the  following  lines, 
written  when  he  was  little  more  than  twice  that 
age:— 

"  Many's  the  time  I've  scampered  down  the  glade, 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 
Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing 
While  we  around  her  formed  a  little  ring  ,— 
She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed, 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed  ; 
Of  little  children  murder'das  they  slept, 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands,  and  wept; 
Sad  was  the  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be '" 
****** 

"  Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought." 
*  -if-  *  *  * 

"I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'erarching  shade, 
And  there  on  mossy  carpet  hstless  laid. 
While  at  my  feet  the  rippUng  runnel  ran, 
The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan. 
Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 
To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there." 

The  heart  of  any  child  would  be  touched  with  such 
ditties,  but  while  the  rest  returned  to  their  play,  the 
future  poet  alone  would  retire  into  solitude  to  muse 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POKTAU'.  209 

upon  them  ;  and  think,  and  feel,  till  he  could  feel  and 
think  no  longer,  over  such  a  stanza  as  this  in  the 
rude  old  ballad,  when  the  villain  had  left  the  children 
in  the  wood,  under  pretence  of  going  to  the  town  lo 
bring  then*  bread,  for  which  they  were  crynng : — 

"These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 
Did  wander  up  and  down, 
But  7iever  more  could  see  the  man, 
Approaching  from  the  town !" 

These  are  lines  which  none  but  a  poet  by  nature 
could  make,  and  they  are  such  lines  as  make  poets. 
From  the  same  juvenile  composition  we  leam  that 
Kirkc  White  was  early  acquainted  with  Spenser  and 
Milton.  Describing  his  evening  walks  with  a  fa- 
vourite school-fellow,  he  says : — 

"  To  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  coloured  pride 
Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide, 
And  tmged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 
To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  conveyed, 
— In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 
While  fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space  ! 
Now  we  espied  the  thuaderer  in  his  car, 
Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war ; 
Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high. 
In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky  ; 
Or  saw,  wide-stretching  o'er  the  azure  height 
A  ridge  of  glaciers,  in  mural  white, 
Hugely  terrific!" 

4ny  eye  might  build  castles  in  the  clouds,  or  dis- 
cover towers  and  glaciers  amid  the  pomp  of  sunset ; 
but  the  imagination  of  the  poet  alone,  fired  with  the 
first  perusal  of  Milton,  would  discern  in  them  the  bat- 
tle array  of  the  seraphim,  and  the  war  in  heaven,  when 

"  Forth  rush'd,  with  whirlwind  sound, 
The  chariot  of  paternal  Deity 
Flashing  thick  flames;" 

and  especially  that  wonderful  couplet,  in  which  the 
approach  of  Messiah  is  described  : — 
R 


210       THE  INFLUENCE  OF  POETRY. 

"  Attended  with  ten  thousand,  thousand  saints, 
Ke  onward  came  :—far  off  his  coming  shone  /" 

I  have  laid  emphasis  on  the  latter  clause,  in  which, 
with  five  of  the  plainest  words  that  our  language 
contains,  "  the  poet  blind  yet  bold"  has  struck  out, 
condensed,  and  displayed,  with  insurpassable  effect, 
one  of  the  most  magnificent  images  to  be  found  even 
m  Paradise  Lost : — 

"  Far  off  his  coming  shone  !" 

The  memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White  has  been 
embalmed  rather  by  the  genius  of  his  biographer 
(Dr.  Southey)  than  his  own.  He  was,  unquestion- 
ably, a  youth  of  extraordinary  promise  ;  but  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that  he  has  left  little  which  would 
have  secured  him  more  than  a  transient  reputation, 
if  his  posthumous  papers  had  fallen  into  other 
hands  than  those  of  the  best-natured  of  critics  and 
the  most  magnanimous  of  poets.  There  is  no  great 
infusion,  hi  his  most  finished  pieces,  of  fine  fancy, 
romantic  feeling,  or  fervid  eloquence.  Their  dis- 
tinguishing characteristics  are  good  sense  and  pious 
sentiment,  strongly  enforced,  and  sometimes  admira- 
bly expressed ;  indeed  the  cast  of  his  thought  v/as 
rather  didactic,  than  either  imaginative  or  impas- 
sioned. Nevertheless,  some  of  his  fragments  of 
verse,  penned  occasionally  on  the  backs  of  mathe- 
matical exercises  at  college,  in  fits  of  inspiration, 
show  that  the  spirit  was  far  from  being  quenched 
within  him,  after  he  had  formally  abandoned  poesy 
as  a  pursuit ;  but  that,  in  sickness,  solitude,  and 
studies  the  most  difficult  and  uncongenial,  the  hidden 
fire  burned  more  intensely  for  repression,  and  now 
and  then  flashed  out  portentously.  The  following 
lines,  though  the  second  is  lame,  and  the  cold  critic 
might  perhaps  find  fifty  faults  in  them,  are  strikingly 
sublime.  There  is  a  veil  of  obscurity  upon  them, 
like  that  wliich  hides  the  secrets  of  the  eternal 
world . — 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY.  21.1 

"  Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark -woven  lay : 

I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away." 

*  O  thou  stern  spirit,  that  dost  dwell 
In  thine  eternal  cell. 

Noting,  gray  chronicler !  the  silent  years, — 
J  saw  thee  rise, — 1  saw  thy  scroll  complete ; 
Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way  !  *  *  * 

It  was  well  that  the  author  left  this  sketch  unfinished; 
anotlier  line  might  have  let  it  down  from  "  the  high- 
est heaven  of  invention,"  in  which  it  had  been  con- 
ceived, and  into  which  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  rapt 
in  the  endeavour  to  decipher  the  hieroglyphic  hint. 
Henry  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  years.  In  some 
rough  blank  verses  composed  long  before  his  dc'-^ease, 
he  thus  anticipated  an  early  grave  : — 

"  Ay,  I  have  planned  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 
Of  earthly  happiness ;  *  *  * 

And  it  is  hard 
To  feel  the  hand  of  death  arrest  one's  steps, 
Throw  a  chill  blight  on  all  one's  budding  hopes, 
And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades. 
Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 
—Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  think  of  Henry? 
Oh,  none  !— another  busy  brood  of  beings 
Will  shoot  up  in  the  mterim,  and  none 
Will  hold  him  in  remembrance. — 

"  I  shall  sink, 
As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 
Of  busy  London  : — some  short  bustle's  caused, 
A  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowd  close  in. 
And  all's  forgotten." 

This  may  be  very  meager  poetry,  but  the  sentiments, 
in  connexion  with  the  author's  subsequent  history, 
are  exceedingly  affecting.  The  very  reniarkablo 
simile  at  the  conclusion,  familiar  as  it  seems,  I  be- 
lieve to  be  perfectly  original ;  and  the  moral  maybe 
extended  beyond  its  personal  application  here.  What 


212  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY. 

is  the  date  of  fame  itself,  and  the  circumstances 
accompanying  it,  more  than  the  death  of  a  stranger 
in  tlie  pubhc  streets  of  a  great  city,  occasioning  a 
momentary  interruption  in  a  perpetual  crowd  1  a  ifew 
inquiries  and  exclamations,  then  all  goes  on  again 
as  it  hath  done  for  centuries  past,  on  that  very  spot, 
and  may  go  to  the  world's  end  ! 

The  crown  of  Kirke  White's  labours  in  verse  was 
8  solitary  book  of  "The  Christiad,"  a  sacred  poem 
on  the  sufferings  and  death  of  our  Saviour.  In  re- 
ference to  this,  his  kind-hearted  biographer  observes, 
— "  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying,  that  tiie  last  two 
stanzas  (of  this  fragment)  greatly  affected  me,  when 
I  discovered  them  written  on  the  leaf  of  a  different 
book,  and  apparently  long  after  the  first  canto  ;  and 
greatly  shall  I  be  mistaken  if  they  do  not  affect  the 
reader  also.     They  are  these  : — 

"  Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarcling  toil ; — thus  far  have  sung 
Of  god-like  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I,  in  earlier  days,  have  strung : 
— And  now  my  spirits  faint ;  and  I  have  hung 

The  shell  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour 
On  the  dark  cypress  !  and  the  strains  which  rung 

"With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard  no  more. 
****** 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  1  no  more  reanimate  the  lay? 
Oh  !  ""I'hou,  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men  • 

Thou,  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray  ! 
One  iiltle  space  prolong  my  mortal  day  ; 

One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ; 
I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way  ; 

And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  Thee, 
Ere  I  with  death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  arn  free." 

These  were  probably  the  last  stanzas  the  dying  poet 
ever  penned,  for  it  pleased  God  to  grant  him  a  Jiii^her 
boon  than  that  for  which  he  prayed  : — he  asked  for 
life,  and  he  received  immortality 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  POETRY.        213 


Robert  Burns, 

"  Tlie  Ayrshire  Ploughman,"  as  he  was  first  called, 
— or  Bums,  as  he  shall  for  ages  be  known  by  a 
moMOsyUable  that  will  need  neither  prefix  nor  ad- 
junct to  designate  to  whom  "  of  that  ilk"  ii  belongs, 
— Burns  was  so  truly  a  born-'poet  (if  ever  there  was 
one),  that  whatever  tended  to  develop  his  powers 
must  be  peculiarly  interesting  and  instructive  to  all 
who  love  to  trace  in  "  the  minstrel"  tlie  "  progress 
of  genius;"  while,  in  this  place,  I  trust  that  it  will, 
in  some  measure,  elucidate  the  main  principles  which 
I  have  endeavoured  to  establish  in  these  papers  re- 
specting poetry  and  poets.  Religion,  patriotism,  and 
love  were,  in  succession  or  in  combination,  the  in- 
spirers  of  the  poetry  of  Robert  Burns: — when 
he  wrote  on  other  themes,  he  too  frequently  dese- 
crated the  talents  which  their  sublimer  impulses  had 
awakened,  trained,  and  perfected.  In  broad  humour, 
too,  and  keen  satire,  he  excelled.  It  is  true,  that  in 
both  of  these  he  went  grievously  astray;  yet,  amid 
the  rudest  extravagances  of  either,  that  intensity  of 
feeling  which  belonged  to  the  higher  sentiments 
above  mentioned  often  broke  out  in  sallies  of  noble 
thought,  and  splendid  imagination  ;  which  showed 
that  his  spirit  had  not  lost  "  all  its  original  bright- 
ness," when  it  seemed  most  "  fallen." 

The  letter  which  he  addressed  to  Dr.  Moore,  soon 
after  his  appearance  as  an  author,  in  which  he  gives 
an  account  of  his  early  life,  proves  that  religion 
made  a  powerful  impression  on  his  mind,  in  the 
very  dawn  of  infancy;  of  course,  it  must  have  influ- 
enced,  in  a  high  degree,  the  growth  and  charac- 
ter of  his  genius.  Several  of  the  most  beautifu) 
and  afl'ecting  stanzas  in  "The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,"  in  which  the  bard  is  known  to  have  de- 
scribed the  felicities  of  his  father's  fireside,  touch 
upon  the  principal  subjects  of  Holy  Writ  with  such 


214  THE    INFLUKNCK    OF    POETRY. 

truth  and  pathos  as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  "  the 
Day-spring  from  on  high,"  which  shines  through  the 
Psalms  and  Prophecies,  had  lighted  up  his  young 
imagination  ;  while  the  simplicity  of  evangelical  nar- 
rative and  the  fervency  of  apostolic  teaching  had 
captivated  his  soul,  and  engaged  the  finest  sensibili- 
ties of  a  heart  not  yet  corrupted  by  commerce  with 
a  profligate  world.  To  the  cherished  remembrance 
of  early  devotional  enjoyments,  and  to  a  happy  tal- 
ent for  imitating  the  language  of  the  sacred  penmen, 
the  best  productions  of  Burns  are  indebted  for  much 
of  their  energy  of  expression  and  elevation  of  ideas, 
— their  purity,  tenderness,  and  force. 

But  the  wild  minstrelsy  of  his  native  land,  unre- 
strained and  irregular,  and  infinitely  variable, — con- 
fined indeed  within  a  narrow  circle,  but  that  circle  a 
magic  one ;  and  hmited  to  a  single  key,  but  that  key 
having  a  minor  third  of  passing  sweetness, — contrib- 
uted likewise  to  rouse  his  fancy,  exercise  his  feel- 
ings, and  enrich  his  memory  with  images  and  sen- 
timents at  once  noble  and  natural ;  while  its  melo- 
dies, that  flowed  around  him,  were  mingled  in  his 
ear  and  associated  in  his  thoughts,  with  all  the  har- 
monies of  nature  heard  amid  forests  and  moun- 
tains,— the  music  of  birds,  and  winds,  and  waters, 
which  they  resembled  in  unmeasured  fluency  and 
spontaneous  modulation.  Then,  too,  the  tales  of 
tradition,  which  he  listened  to  from  the  lips  of  an 
ancient  beldam,  made  him  the  inhabitant  of  an  ima- 
ginary world,  wherein  all  that 

"  Fable  yet  had  feigned  or  fear  conceived" 

was  realized  to  him  ;  for  he  was  a  thoughtful  and 
solitary  boy,  and,  in  solitude  and  thought,  he  peopled 
every  scene  that  was  dear  and  familiar  to  his  eye 
witli  spirits  and  fairies,  witches  and  warlocks,  giants 
and  kelpies.  It  is  evident,  frojii  almost  all  his  pieces, 
that  it  was  his  delight,  indeed  it  was  his  forte,  to 


THE  INFLUENCK  OF  POETRY.        215 

localize  the  personiiffes  of  his  poetry, — whether  tho 
ofFspriiig  of  his  brain,  like  CoHa  ;  supernatural  beiii2rs, 
hke  the  dancers  in  Kirk  Allovvay  ;  or  national  heroes, 
like  Wallace  and  Bruce, — with  the  very  woods,  and 
hills,  and  streams  which  he  frequented  in  his  boy 
hood.  And  in  his  mind  this  assimilation  was  so 
lively  and  abiding-,  that  there  are  few  of  his  descrip- 
tions— descriptions  in  number,  diversity,  and  pictu- 
resque features  seldom  equalled — on  which  he  has 
not  cast  such  sunshine  of  reality,  that  we  cannot 
doubt  that  they  had  their  prototypes  in  nature,  and 
not  in  nature  only,  but  in  his  native  district;  foi 
neither  his  knovvled^^e  nor  his  affections  were  ever 
carried  far  beyond  the  province  of  his  birth  ;  and  be- 
yond Scotland  they  scarcely  extended  at  all.  It  is 
probable  that  the  mind  of  every  one  of  us  lays  the 
scenes  of  Scripture  narrative,  of  history,  of  romance, 
of  epic  poetry, — in  fact,  of  all  that  we  hear  or  read  of, 
— in  the  places  where  we  spent  our  childhood  and 
youth;  as,  for  example,  the  gai'den  of  Eden  in  our 
father's  orchard,  where  there  were  many  fruit  trees  ; 
the  battle  of  Cannae  on  the  wide  common,  inter- 
sected with  trenches,  where  a  conflict  is  said  to  have 
been  fought  between  the  Royalists  and  the  Parlia- 
mentarians in  the  civil  war  ;  the  enchanted  castle  of 
some  stupendous  giant  to  have  stood  on  the  hill 
where  the  ruins  of  a  Saxon  tower  rise  on  a  mount 
out  of  a  thick  wood ;  and  the  pursuit  of  Hector  by 
Achilles  round  Troy  walls,  as  having  taken  place 
about  the  nearest  market  town  that  we  knew  when 
we  first  read  Homer.  Each  individual,  of  course, 
will  have  a  different  series  of  mnemonics  of  this 
kind,  which  he  will  find  himself  continually  asso- 
ciating with  the  scenes  of  great  events  in  the  world's 
records  and  traditions.  It  is  of  some  advantage, 
then,  to  the  poet,  that  the  features  of  the  landscapes 
amid  which  he  first  dwelt,  but  more  especially 
those  of  the  neighbourhood  where  he  long  went  to 
school,    should    afford    rich   and   plastic    materials, 


216  THE    INFLUENCE     OF     POETRY. 

which  imagination  can  diversify  a  million-fold,  ?n<] 
so  accommodate  as  to  make  them  the  perpetual  the- 
atre of  all  that  he  has  been  taught  to  remember  con- 
cerning those  who  have  lived  before  him,  and  all  that 
he  invents  to  increase  the  pleasures  of  memory,  to 
those  that  shall  come  after  him.  For  it  is  not  from  the 
real  and  visible  presence  of  things  that  the  poet 
copies  and  displays ;  wherever  he  is,  whatever  climes 
he  sees,  his  "  heart"  is  "  still  untravelled  ;"  and  it  is 
from  the  cherished  recollections  of  what  early  af- 
fected him,  and  could  never  afterward  be  forgotten 
(having  grown  up  into  ideal  beauty,  grandeur,  and 
excellence  in  his  own  mind),  that  he  sings,  and  paints, 
and  sculptures  out  imperishable  forms  of  fancy, 
thought,  and  feeling.  In  this  respect,  all  the  com- 
positions of  Burns  are  homogeneous.  He  is  in 
every  style,  in  every  theme,  not  only  the  patriot,  the 
Scotchman, — but  the  Scotchman,  the  patriot  of 
Ayrshire ;  so  dear  and  indissoluble  are  the  ties  of 
locality  to  minds  the  most  aspiring  and  independent. 
Burns,  according  to  his  own  account,  was  distin- 
guished in  childhood  by  a  very  retentive  memory. 
In  the  stores  of  that  memory  we  discover  the  hid- 
den treasures  of  his  muse,  which  enabled  her,  with 
a  prodigalit)'^  like  that  of  nature,  to  pour  forth  images 
and  objects  of  every  form,  and  colour,  and  kind, 
while,  with  an  economy  like  that  of  the  most  prac- 
tised art,  she  selected  and  combined  the  endless 
characteristics  of  pleasing  or  magnificent  scenery, 
with  such  sinaplicity  and  effect,  under  ever}'^  aspect 
of  sky  or  season,-  that  the  bard  himself  seems  rather 
to  be  a  co-^ipanion  pointing  out  to  the  eye  the  love- 
liness or  horror  of  a  prospect  within  our  own  hori- 
zon, than  the  enchanter  creating  a  fairy  scene  visi- 
ble only  to  imagination.  He  appears  to  invent 
nothing,  while  in  truth  he  exercises  a  much  higher 
f.iculty  than  wliat  is  frequently  called  invention,  but 
whicli  is  little  more  than  an  arbitrary  collocation  of 
thinjrs.  iiurmonioi!.   o".lv  when  arrani'cd  b\-  il\elia;id 


THE  INFLUKNCK  OF  POETRY.        217 

thnt  built  the  universe,  or  faithfully  copied  from  origi- 
nal models  of  that  hand  by  an  earthly  one,  which  pre- 
sumes not  to  add  a  lineament  of  its  own.  The  j^c, 
nms  of  BurnSj  like  his  native  stream,  confined  to  his 
native  district,  reflects  the  scenery  on  "  the  Banks 
of  Ayr"  with  as  much  more  truth  and  transparency 
than  factitious  landscapes  are  painted  in  the  opaque 
pages  of  more  ostentatious  poets,  as  the  reflections 
of  trees,  cottages,  and  animals  are  more  vivid  and 
diversified  in  water  than  the  shadovrs  of  the  same 
objects  are  on  land. 

Whi'le  yet  a  child,  in  addition  to  his  school-learn* 
ing,  the  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  afterward  the  His- 
tory of  Wallace,  fell  into  his  hands.  These  were 
the  first  books  that  Burns  had  read  alone, — and  in 
all  the  luxury  of  solitary  indulgence,  he  stole  away 
from  toil  and  from  pastime  to  enjoy  them  without 
interruption.  These  were  also  the  books  best  suited 
to  his  genius  at  that  age  :  they  awoke  the  boldest 
energies  of  his  mind,  and  kindled  an  inextinguish- 
able flame  of  heroic  ardour  and  patriotic  devotion  in 
his  bosom.  The  child  became  a  soldier  immediately, 
as  every  lad  does  in  his  turn :  the  drum  and  the 
bagpipe  spake  a  new  language  to  his  ear,  and  were 
answered  in  corresponding  tones  from  the  recesses 
of  his  heart.  He  left  his  boyish  sports,  and  strutted 
after  the  recruiting  sergeant  in  the  spirit  of  Hanni- 
bal overrunning  Italy,  or  Wallace  repelling  the  rav- 
agers  of  his  country.  Thus,  the  character  of  grand- 
eur was  stamped  upon  his  soul  while  it  was  soft  in 
the  mould  :  he  became  a  hero  before  he  was  a  man  ; 
and,  which  was  of  much  greater  consequence  to  his 
future  glory,  before  he  was  a  lover.  His  genius  was 
hewn  out  of  the  quarry  with  the  strength  and  pro- 
portions of  a  Hercules :  love,  indeed,  afterward 
touched  it  down  into  a  gentler  form,  but  love  him- 
self could  not  reduce  it  to  an  Adonis;  the  original 
majesty  remained  after  the  original  ruggedness  had 
been  chiselled  away.     The  graces  mav  be  added  to 


'Z'S  rns;   imluenck    of    i'oetry. 

the  noblest  character  without  deGrraciinir  it,  but  when 
they  precede  the  heroic  virtues  they  preclude  them. 
Two  stanzas  from  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night" 
will  exemplify  the  style  of  his  patriotic  poetry  : — 

"  O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  heaven  is  sent, 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ; 
And  O  may  heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ; 
Then  howe'er  crowns  and  con  nets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand,  a  wall  of  fire,  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

"  O  Thou,  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide. 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart, 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part ; 
The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  ;     • 
O  never,  ne'i'er  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard." 

Love  at  length  found  him,  who  was  to  be  pre- 
eminently the  poet  of  love.  Then,  as  the  morning 
mists,  when  they  retire  from  the  risen  sun,  leave  the 
landscape  more  beautiful,  diversified,  and  spacious 
than  the  traveller  could  have  supposed  it  before, — 
so,  when  the  selfishness  of  the  child  and  the  obsti- 
nacy of  the  boy  were  dissolved  in  the  growing  ardour 
of  youth,  Burns  discovered  a  new  creation  of  so- 
cial feelings  and  generous  sentiments  in  his  soul,  all 
referring  to  one  object,  and  that  the  dearest  and  the 
loveliest,  both  to  his  eye  and  his  fancy,  that  he  had 
ever  yet  beheld.  Religion  had  already  warmed  his 
affections,  and  heroism  exalted  his  imagination  ;  love, 
therefore,  found  him  a  prompt  disciple,  and,  unfortu- 
nately for  his  future  peace  and  honour,  love  soon  be- 
came lord  of  the  ascendant  in  his  horoscope,  and 
thenceforward  the  load-star  of  his  genius — the  mas 
ter-passion  of  his  life. 


TflK     INFLUKNCK     OF      I'OKTRY.  219 

Hitherto  he  had  ij^azcd  with  iidmirHtion  on  the 
heavens  as  disphiying  the  gh)ry  of  God,  and  (;n  the 
earth  as  being  filled  with  his  goodness  ;  while,  in 
more  romantic  mood,  he  had  imagined  his  native 
hills  and  valleys  the  Alps  overcome  and  the  battle- 
fields traversed  by  Hannibal,  or  had  contemplated 
them  as  the  actual  scenes  of  the  achievements  and 
misfortunes  of  Wallace  :  now  he  looked  upon  the 
face  of  nature  and  of  his  beloved  with  the  same  ten- 
derness and  enthusiasm  ;  whatever  charms  he  de- 
scried in  the  features  of  the  one,  his  lively  fancy 
could  attribute  to  those  of  the  other.  Sometimes  he 
saw  nature  supereminently  fair,  because  its  beauties 
reminded  him  of  her  whom,  with  the  idolatry  of  pas- 
sion, he  adored  ;  again,  the  beauties  of  his  mistress 
appeared  all  perfect,  because  they  reminded  him  of 
whatever  was  lovely  and  attractive  in  creation.  In 
her  presence,  and  even  in  the  idea  of  her  presence, — 

"The  common  air,  the  earth,  the  skies, 
To  him  were  opening  Paradise."—  Gray. 

Such  joyous  emotions  as  now  began  to  visit  his 
bosom  were  too  restless  to  be  confined  there,  too 
exhilarating  to  be  told  in  ordinary  language,  and  too 
evanescent  to  be  revealed  in  verse,  without  the  aid 
of  glowing  imagery.  Then  it  was,  according  to  his 
own  scriptural  allusion,  not  profanely  intended,  that 
the  "poetic  genius  of  his  country  found  him,  as  the 
prophet-bard  Elijah  did  Elisha,  at  the  plough,  and 
threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  him.  She  bade 
him  sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes,  and 
rural  pleasures  of  his  native  soil,  in  his  native 
tongue." 

It  is  not  expedient  here  to  pursue  his  personal  his- 
tory ;  nor  necessary  to  expose  the  follies,  vices,  and 
sorrows  of  his  latter  days.  The  powers  of  his  mind 
had  grown  to  their  full  stature  and  strength  before 
the  period  of  his  well-known  and  ever  to-be-lamented 


220  TilF,     INFLUKNCK     Ol      POKTKY. 

arrival  in  Edinburgh.  Thenceforward  tliey  under- 
went no  extraordinary  change  either  of  improvement 
or  deterioration,  until  their  final  and  premature 
extinction,  after  a  brief  but  brilliant  career  of  fame, 
and  a  merry  but  miserable  career  of  dissipation. 

As  a  writer,  when  worthily  employing  his  talents, 
Burns  is  the  poet  of  truth,  of  nature,  and  of  Scotland. 
Allusion  has  already  been  made  to  the  singular  ad- 
vantages, neither  fev/  nor  small,  which  he  derived 
from  the  privilege  of  availing  himself  of  the  whole 
vocabulary  of  his  mother-tongue,  in  addition  to  the 
whole  scope  of  the  English  language.  His  subjects 
are  never  remote,  abstracted,  or  factitious  ;  they  are 
such  as  come  in  his  way,  and  therefore  shine  in  his 
song,  as  the  clouds  which  meet  the  sun  are  adorned 
by  his  rays.  His  scenery  is  purely  native,  and  pre 
sents  the  very  objects  that  engaged  his  attention 
when  the  themes  with  which  they  are  associated 
were  revolving  in  his  mind.  The  reader  sees,  hears, 
feels  with  the  poet  in  such  descriptions  as  these : — 

"  As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa'  flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 
Wliere  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

And  tehs  the  midnight  moon  her  care  ; 
The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  along  the  sky  ; 
The  fox  was  howhng  on  the  hilh 

And  the  distant  echoing  vales  reply." 

A  poet  ought  to  have  the  eye  of  the  deaf,  and  the 
ear  of  the  blind,  with  every  other  sense  quickened 
in  proportion,  as  though  it  alone  were  exercised  to 
supply  the  deficiency  of  all  the  rest.  Burns  was 
thus  exquisitely  organized  ;  and  these  lines  prove  it. 
It  is  manifest,  also,  that  he  wrote  less  consciously 
from  memory  than  perception:  not  after  slow  de- 
lib(^r.ition  and  long  choosing,  but  from  instantaneous 
imp\ilse  acting  upon  ;ibundant  and  susceptible  ma- 
terials, treasured   up  for  anv  occasion    thai    niiiihf 


THK  INFLUKNCK  OF  POETRY.        221 

bring  them  into  use.  The  fire  which  bums  through 
ilis  poems  was  not  elaborated  spark  by  spark  from 
mechanical  friction  in  the  closet.  It  was  in  tlie  open 
field,  under  the  cope  of  heaven,  this  poetical  Frank- 
lin cauglit  his  lightnings  from  the  cloud  as  it  passed 
over  him;  and  he  communicated  them,  too,  by  a 
touch,  with  electrical  swiftness  and  effect.  Thus, 
literally,  amid  the  inspiration  of  a  thunder-storm 
on  the  wilds  of  Kenmore,  he  framed  the  "Address 
of  Bruce  to  his  Soldiers  at  Bannockburn,"  whicli 
will  only  be  forgotten  with  the  battle  itself;  that  is 
with  the  glory  and  existence  of  his  country. 

The  high  praises  here  bestowed  upon  the  compo- 
sitions of  this  author  must  be  confined  to  the  best 
and  the  purest  in  morals  and  in  taste.  His  ordinary 
and  his  satirical  ones — I  dare  not  except  "Tarn 
O'Shanter,"  that  prodigy  of  wayward  fancy — are  so 
often  debased  by  ribaldry  and  profaneness,  that  they 
can  scarcely  be  perused  without  shuddering  by  any 
one  whose  mind  is  not  utterly  corrupted.  The 
genius  of  Burns  resembled  the  pearl  of  Cleopatra, 
both  in  its  worth  and  its  fortune  ;  the  one  was 
moulded  by  nature  in  secret,  beneath  the  depths  oi 
the  ocean ;  the  other  was  produced  and  perfected  b5 
the  same  hand,  in  equal  obscurity,  on  the  banks  ol 
the  Ayr.  The  former  was  suddenly  brought  to  light, 
and  shone  for  a  season  on  the  forehead  of  imperia. 
beauty ;  the  latter,  not  less  unexpectedly,  emerged 
from  the  shade,  and  dazzled  and  delighted  an  ad- 
miring nation,  in  the  keeping  of  a  Scottish  peasant. 
The  fate  of  both  was  the  same :  each  was  wantonly 
dissolved  in  the  cup  of  pleasure,  and  quaffed  by  its 
possessor  at  one  intemperate  drauT'nt. 


k 
RETROSPECT   OF  LITERATURE, 

FROM  THE   EARLIEST  PERIOD  TO  THE   TWELFTH  CENTURY 
OF    THE    CHRISTIAN    ERA. 


No.  I. 

The  Permanence  of  Words, 

An  eloquent,  but  extravagant,  writer  has  hazarded 
the  assertion,  that  "  words  are  the  only  things  that 
last  for  ever."*  Nor  is  this  merely  a  splendid  say- 
ing, or  a  startling  paradox,  that  may  be  qualified  by 
explanation  into  commonplace ;  but  with  respect  to 
man,  and  his  VvOrks  on  earth,  it  is  literally  true. 
Temples  and  palaces,  amphitheatres  and  catacombs 
— monuments  of  power,  and  magnificence,  and  skill, 
to  perpetuate  the  memory,  and  preserve  even  the 
ashes,  of  those  who  lived  in  past  ages — must,  in  the 
revolutions  of  mundane  events,  not  only  perish  them- 
selves by  violence  or  decay,  but  the  very  dust  in 
which  they  perished  be  so  scattered  as  to  leave  no 
Irace  of  their  material  existence  behind.  Tliere  is 
no  security  beyond  the  passing  moment  for  tlie  most 
permanent,  or  the  most  precious  of  these  ;  they  are 
as  much  in  jeopardy  as  ever,  after  having  escaped 
the  changes  and  chances  of  thousands  of  years.  An 
earthquake  may  suddenly  ing'.lf  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt,  and  leave  the  sand  of  the  desert  as  blank  as 

'  The  late  Mr.  William  Ilazlitt. 


A  RETROSPECT  OF  LITI.RATURK.      223 

the  tide  would  have  left  it  on  the  seashore.  A 
hammer -ill  the  hand  of  an  idiot  may  break  to  pieces 
the  Apollo  Belvedere,  or  the  Venus  de'  Medici,  w^hich 
are  scarcely  less  worshipped  as  miracles  of  art  in 
our  day  than  they  were  by  idolaters  of  old  as  repre- 
sentatives of  deities. 

Looking  abroad  over  the  whole  world,  after  the 
lapse  of  nearly  six  thousand  years,  what  have  we  of 
the  past  but  the  words  in  which  its  history  is  re- 
corded] What  besides  a  few  mouldering  and  brittle 
ruins,  which  time  is  imperceptibly  touching  down 
into  dust, — what,  besides  these,  remains  of  the  glory, 
the  grandeur,  the  intelligence,  the  supremacy  of  the 
Grecian  republics,  or  the  empire  of  Rome  1  Nothing 
but  the  words  of  poets,  historians,  philosophers,  and 
orators,  who  being  dead  yet  speak,  and  in  their 
immortal  works  still  maintain  their  dominion  over 
inferior  minds  through  all  posterity.  And  these 
intellectual  sovereigns  not  only  govern  our  spirits 
from  the  tomb  by  the  power  of  their  thoughts,  but 
their  very  voices  are  heard  by  our  living  ears  in  the 
accents  of  their  mother-tongues.  The  beauty,  the 
eloqueirce,  and  art  of  these  collocations  of  sounds 
and  syllables,  the  learned  alone  can  appreciate,  and 
that  only  (in  some  cases)  after  long,  intense,  and 
laborious  investigation;  but  as  thought  can  be  made 
to  transmigrate  from  one  body  of  words  into  another, 
even  through  all  the  languages  of  the  earth,  without 
losing  what  may  be  called  its  personal  identity, — 
the  great  minds  of  antiquity  continue  to  hold  their 
jiscendency  over  the  opinions,  manners,  characters, 
institutions,  and  events  of  all  ages  and  nations 
through  which  their  posthumous  compositions  have 
found  way,  and  been  made  the  earliest  subjects  of 
study,  the  highest  standards  of  morals,  and  the  most 
perfect  examples  of  taste,  to  the  master-minds  in 
every  state  of  civilized  society.  In  this  respect,  the 
"  wordb'    of  inspired   prophets  and  apostles  among 


224  A    KKTROSPKCT    OF    LITERATURE. 

the  Jews,  and  those  of  gifted  writers  among  the 
ancient  gentiles,  may  truly  be  said  to  "last  for 
ever." 

Words  are  the  vehicles  by  which  thought  is  made 
visible  to  the  eye,  audible  to  the  ear,  and  intelligible 
to  the  mind  of  another;  they  are  the  palpable  forms 
of  ideas,  without  which  these  would  be  intangible  as 
the  spirit  that  conceives  or  the  breath  that  would 
utter  them.  And  of  su^h  influence  is  speech  or 
writing,  as  the  conductor  of  thought,  that,  though 
all  words  do  not  "last  for  ever,"  and  it  is  well  for 
the  peace  of  the  world,  and  the  happiness  of  indi- 
viduals, that  they  do  not, — yet  even  here  every  word 
has  its  date  and  its  eflfect ;  so  that  with  the  tongue 
or  the  pen  we  are  continually  doing  good  or  evil  to 
ourselves  or  our  neighbours.  On  a  single  phrase 
expressed  in  anger  or  affection,  in  levity  or  serious- 
ness, the  whole  progress  of  a  human  spirit  through 
life — perhaps  even  to  eternity — may  be  changed 
from  the  direction  which  it  was  pursuing,  whether 
right  or  wrong.  For  in  nothing  is  the  power  and 
indestructibility  of  words  more  signally  exemplified 
than  in  small  compositions,  such  as  stories,  essays, 
parables,  songs,  proverbs,  and  all  the  minor  and  more 
exquisite  forms  of  composition.  It  is  a  fact,  not 
obvious  perhaps,  but  capable  of  perfect  proof,  that 
knowledge,  in  all  eras  which  have  been  distinguished 
as  enlightened,  has  been  propagated  more  by  tracts 
th-rui  by  volumes.  We  need  but  appeal,  in  evidence 
of  this,  to  the  state  of  learning  in  our  own  land  at  the 
present  day,  when  all  classes  of  people  are  more  or 
less  instructed.  On  this  point  I  shall  have  a  future 
opportunity  of  expatiating,  and  wlW  therefore,  at 
present,  ofler  only  two  examples  of  the  permanence 
of  v/ords,  involving  sacred  or  important  truth,  of 
equal  value  and  application,  iti  ail  periods  and  coun- 
tries, and  among  all  people  to  M'hom  they  may  be 
delivered 


A    RETROSI'KCT    OF     LITERATURE.  225 

III  the  youth  of  the  Roman  commonwealth,  during 
a  quarrel  between  the  patricians  and  plebeians,  when 
the  latter  had  separated  themselves  from  the  former, 
on  the  plea  that  they  would  no  longer  labour  to 
maintain  the  unproductive  class  in  indolent  luxury, 
Menenius  Agrippa,  by  the  well-known  fable  of  a 
schism  in  the  human  body,  in  which  the  limbs 
mutinied  against  the  stomach,  brought  the  seceders 
to  a  sense  of  their  duty  and  interest,  and  reconciled 
a  feud  which,  had  it  been  further  inflamed,  might 
have  destroyed  the  state,  and  turned  the  history  of 
the  world  itself  thenceforward  into  an  entirely  new 
channel,  by  interrupting  the  tide  of  events  which 
were  carrying  Rome  to  the  summit  of  dominion. 
The  lesson  which  that  sagacious  patriot  taught  to 
his  countrymen  and  contemporaries,  he  taught  to  all 
generations  to  come.  His  fable  has  already,  by  more 
than  a  thousand  years,  survived  the  empire  which  it 
rescued  from  premature  destruction. 

The  other  instance  of  a  small  form  of  words,  in 
which  dwells  not  an  immortal  only,  but  a  divine 
spirit,  is  that  prayer  which  our  Saviour  taught  his 
disciples.  How  many  millions  and  milUons  of  times 
has  that  prayer  been  preferred  by  Christians  of  all 
denominations!  So  wide,  indeed,  is  the  sound 
thereof  gone  forth,  that  daily,  and  almost  without 
intermission,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  afar  oflf 
upon  the  sea,  it  is  ascending  to  Heaven  like  incense 
and  a  pure  offering  ;  nor  needs  it  the  gift  of  prophecy 
to  foretell,  that  though  "  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass 
avi^ay,"  these  words  of  our  blessed  Lord  *'  shall  not 
pass  away,"  till  every  petition  in  it  has  been  an- 
swered— till  the  kingdom  of  God  shall  come,  and  his 
will  be  done  in  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  immediate  purpose  of 

these  papers — to  take  a  brief,  and  necessarily  iniper* 

feet,  but  perhaps  not  altogether  uninteresting,  re« 

trcspect  of  the  history  of  literature,  from  the  ear* 

S 


22n  A    RETROSPKCT    OV    LIT '.HyiV  RE. 

liest  data  to  the  period  immediately  preceding  the 
revival  of  letters  in  modern  Europe.  1  must  pre- 
mise that  the  method  of  handling  such  an  argument 
in  so  small  a  compass  can  scarcely  be  otherwise 
than  discursive  and  miscellaneous. 

The  general  Forms  of  Literature. 

Literature,  as  a  general  name  for  learning,  equally 
includes  the  liberal  arts,  and  the  useful  and  abstruse 
sciences.  Philosophy,  in  this  acceptation  of  the 
word,  is  a  branch  of  literature.  But  literature,  in 
its  peculiar  sense  as  distinct  from  philosophy,  may- 
be regarded  as  the  expression  of  every  fixed  form 
of  thought,  whether  by  speech  or  writing.  Litera- 
ture in  this  view  will  embrace  poetry,  eloquence, 
history,  romance,  didactics,  and  indeed  every  kind 
of  verbal  composition,  whatever  be  the  subject :  all 
books,  in  reference  to  their  execution,  are  literary 
works ;  and  so  are  the  songs  and  traditions  of  bar- 
barians among  whom  letters  are  unknown ;  the  latter, 
not  less  than  the  former,  being  vehicles  for  commu- 
nicating premeditated  thought  in  set  terms. 

Of  literature  thus  defined  there  are  two  species, 
verse  and  prose  ;  and  the  first  takes  precedence  of 
the  second  ;  for  though  the  structure  of  ordinary 
discourse  be  prose,  the  earliest  artificial  composi- 
tions, in  all  languages,  have  assumed  the  form  of 
verse;  because,  as  the  subjects  were  intended  to  be 
emphatically  impressed  upon  the  mind,  and  distinctly 
retained  in  the  memory — point,  condensation,  or 
ornament  of  diction,  combined  with  harmony  of 
rhythm,  arising  from  quantity,  accent,  or  merely  cor- 
responding divisions  of  sentences,  w^ere  the  obvious 
and  elegant  means  of  accomplishing  these  pur- 
poses. 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  227 


Early  Poetry. 

The  most  ancient  specimen  of  oral  literature  on 
record  we  find  in  the  oldest  book,  which  is  itself  the 
most  ancient  specimen  of  written  literature.  This 
is  the  speech  of  Lamech  to  his  two  wives  (in  the 
fourth  chapter  of  Genesis),  which,  though  consisting 
of  six  hemistichs  only,  nevertheless  exemplifies  all 
the  peculiarities  of  Hebrew  verse — parallelism,  am- 
plijication,  and  antithesis.  The  passage  is  exceed- 
ingly obscure,  and  I  shall  not  attempt  to  interpret 
it :  the  mere  collocation  of  words,  as  they  stand  in 
the  authorized  Enghsh  Bible,  will  answer  our  pres- 
ent purpose : — 

"Adah  and  Zillah !  hear  my  voice ; 
Ye  wives  of  Lamech !  hearken  unto  my  speech." 

This  is  a  parallelism,  the  meaning  of  both  lines 
being  synonymous,  though  the  phraseology  is  varied, 
and  the  two  limbs  of  each  correspond  to  those  of  the 
other : — 

"  Adah  and  Zillah  !         I  heav  my  \o\\j:  ; 

Ye  wives  of  Lamech,  |  hearken  unto  \ny  spv.  ?cb, 
"  For  I  have  slain  a  man  to  my  wounding. 

And  a  young  man  to  my  hurt." 

Here  is  amplification  :  concerning  the  man  slain  in 
the  first  clause,  we  have  the  additional  information 
in  the  second  that  he  was  "  a  young  man." 

"  If  Cain  shall  be  avenged  seven  fold, 
Truly  Lamech  seventy  and  seven  fold." 

The  antithesis  in  this  couplet  consists,  not  in  con- 
trariety, but  in  aggravation  of  the  opposing  terms 
— seven  fold  contrasted  with  seventy  and  seven  fold 
The  context  of  this  passage  has  a  peculiar  inter 


228  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

est  at  this  time,  when  the  proscription  of  everlast- 
ing ignorance  is  taken  off  from  the  multitude,  and 
knowledge  is  become  as  much  the  birthright  of  the 
people  of  Britain  as  liberty.  This  Lamech,  who,  if 
not  the  inventor  of  poesy,  was  one  of  the  earliest 
of  poets,  had  three  sons  ;  of  whom  Jabal,  the  father 
of  such  as  dwell  in  tents,  followed  agriculture  ;  Ju- 
bal,  the  father  of  all  such  as  handle  the  harp  and 
organ,  cultivated  music ;  while  Tubal-Cain,  an  in- 
structer  of  every  artificer  in  brass  and  iron,  prac- 
tised handicraft.  Thus,  in  the  seventh  generation 
of  man,  in  one  family  we  find  poetry,  music,  agricul- 
ture, and  the  mechanical  arts.  Hence  literature, 
which  is  connected  with  the  two  first,  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  the  pursuits  of  the  two  latter.  There 
are  two  traditions  respecting  the  second  and  third 
of  these  brethren,  each  of  which  may,  without  im- 
propriety, be  introduced  here.  Of  Tubal-Cain,  it  is 
said,  to  borrow  the  homely  verse  of  Sylvester's  Du 
Bartas, — 

•^  While  through  a  forest  Tubal,  with  his  yew, 
And  ready  quiver,  did  a  boar  pursue, 
A  burning  mountain  from  his  fiery  vein, 
An  iron  river  rolls  along  the  plain : 
The  wily  huntsman,  musing,  thither  hies, 
And  of  the  wonder  deeply  'gan  devise  : 
And  first  perceiving  that  this  scalding  metal, 
Becoming  cold,  in  many  shapes  would  settle, 
And  grow  so  hard,  that,  with  his  sharpen'd  side 
The  firmest  substance  it  would  soon  divide ; 
He  casts  a  hundred  plots,  and  ere  he  parts, 
He  moulds  the  groundwork  of  a  hundred  arts." 

There  is  a  classical  tradition  of  the  discovery  of 
iron,  by  a  volcanic  eruption  of  Mount  Ida,  so  nearly 
allied  to  this  that  it  may  be  concluded  the  one  was 
borrowed  from  the  other  ;  or,  if  both  had  a  common 
origin,  the  coincidence  would  almost  stamp  the  au- 
thenticity of  the  fact  itself. 

Jubal,  on  the  other  hand,  is  reported  to  have  found 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  229 

the  upper  shell  of  a  tortoise,  in  which,  though  the 
flesh  of  the  animal  had  perished,  the  integuments 
remained.  These  at  his  touch  trembled  into  music, 
giving  forth  sounds  which  suggested  the  idea  of  a 
stringed  instrument.  He  mused  a  while,  then  set 
his  fingers  to  work,  andforthwithcame  the  harp  out 
of  his  hands.  This  invention  has  also  been  celebrated 
in  British  verse,  but  of  a  higher  mood  than  the  strain 
already  quoted: — 

"  When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell, 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound ; 
Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sv/eetly  and  so  well." 

Dryden. 

To  return  to  the  general  subject :  the  hemisticlis 
of  Lamech,  on  which  we  have  commented,  are  only 
verse  in  form ;  neither  the  voice  nor  the  soul  of 
poetry  are  there.  The  next  specimen  which  occurs 
in  Sacred  Writ  are  the  words  of  Noah,  when  he 
awoke  from  his  wine,  and  knew  what  his  children 
had  respectively  done  unto  him : — 

"  Cursed  be  Canaan  ; 
A  servant  of  servants  shall  he  be  to  his  breth.-en 
Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Shem  • 
And  Canaan  shall  be  kis  servant : 
God  shall  enlarge  Japheth, 
And  he  shall  dwell  in  the  tents  of  Shem, 
And  Canaan  shall  be  his  servant." 

This  quotation,  in  the  closing  triplet,  rises  mto  genu- 
ine poetry,  by  the  introduction  of  a  fine  pastoral 
metaphor  illustrative  of  the  manner  of  living  among 
the  ancient  patriarchs  : — 

♦'  God  shall  enlarge  Japheth, 
And  he  shall  dwell  in  the  tents  of  Shem. 


230  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

But  these  lines  are  more  striking,  as  exhibiting  the 
fiist  example  of  the  union  of  poesy  and  prophecy; 
for  in  those  primitive  days, 


-"  the  sacred  name 


Of  prophet  and  of  poet  were  the  same." 

COW'PER. 

I  have  passed  over  the  reputed  prophecies  of 
Enoch  before  the  flood,  because,  though  we  have  a 
quotation  from  them  in  the  Epistle  of  St.  Jude,  the 
original  language  in  which  they  were  uttered  is 
either  itself  extinct,  or,  if  it  were  the  Hebrew,  has 
lost  the  words  that  imbodied  them.  It  may  be  ob- 
served, however,  that  the  translated  extract  in  the 
Greek  Testament  bears  tokens  of  the  original  hav- 
ing been  rhythmical,  which  is  specially  indicated  by 
the  use  of  one  emphatical  word  four  times  in  as 
many  lines — a  pleonasm  that  would  hardly  have  oc- 
curred in  prose  composition,  even  in  the  age  of 
Adam,  but  might  be  gracefully  adapted  to  the  ca- 
dence and  character  of  the  most  ancient  mode  of 
verse. 

Isaac's  benedictions  on  Esau  and  Jacob  are  at 
least  presumptive  evidence  of  the  advanced  state 
of  oral  literature  (for  writing  was  probably  not  yet 
invented)  in  his  age.  The  critics,  I  believe,  do  not 
allow  the  language  to  have  the  decided  marks  of 
Hebrew  rhythm.  If  so,  the  passage  may  be,  without 
hesitation,  set  down  as  the  oldest  specimen  of  prose 
in  the  world. 

Of  the  words  of  dying  Jacob,  however,  there  is  no 
question  that  the  structure  of  them  is  verse,  and 
the  substance  of  them  at  once  poetry  and  prophecy 
of  the  highest  order.  It  might  seem,  from  the  power 
of  the  sentiments  and  the  brilliancy  of  the  illustra- 
tions, as  though  the  patriarch  on  his  dying  couch,  sur- 
rounded by  his  mourning  family,  were  again  caughl 
up  into  the  visions  of  God — as  when  in  his  youth 


A    RETROSPECT    OE    LITERATURE.  231 

tie  lay  alone  on  the  earth  in  the  wilderness  and  saw 
the  angels  of  God  ascending  and  descending  upon  a 
ladder,  that  reached  from  his  stone  pillow  into  the 
heavens ;  for  here,  in  his  last  accents,  it  is  even  as 
if  he  had  learned  the  language,  and  spake  with  the 
tongues,  of  angels — so  fervent,  pure,  and  abundant 
in  wisdom  and  grace  are  the  words  of  his  lips  and 
the  aspirations  of  his  heart.  One  extract  will  suf- 
fice : — 

"  Judah  is  a  lion's  whelp  ;  from  the  prey,  my  son, 
thou  art  gone  up  :  he  stooped  down,  he  couched  as 
a  lion,  and  as  an  old  lion  ;  Vv^ho  shall  rouse  him  up? 

"  The  sceptre  shall  not  depart  from  Judah,  nor  a 
lawgiver  from  between  his  feet,  until  Shiioh  come  ; 
and  to  him  shall  the  gathering  of  the  people  be. 

"  Binding  his  foal  unto  the  vine,  and  his  ass's  colt 
unto  the  choice  vine  ;  he  washed  his  garments  in 
wine,  and  his  clothes  with  the  blood  of  grapes. 

"  His  eyes  shall  be  red  with  vvine,  and  his  teeth 
white  with  milk." 

The  ivhole  of  this  imagery  might  he  engraven  in  hiero- 
glyphics ;  but  not  one  of  the  sister  arts  alone  can  do 
it  justice,  for  it  combines  the  excellences  of  all  three 
-picture  to  the  eye,  music  to  the  ear,  poetry  to  the 
!?.iir.d. 

Early  Eloquence. 

The  death  of  Jacob  brings  us  to  the  year  2315 
from  the  creation,  and  consequently  includes  the 
earliest  era  in  profane  history  of  which  any  au 
thentic  records  remain,  concerning  those  celebrated 
nations  of  antiquity  among  whom  arts  and  sciences 
flo'jrished  while  Greece  and  Italy  were  yet  uiipeopled 
or  unknown.  It  has  been  intimated  tliat  verse  was 
antecedent  to  prose  in  the  progress  of  literature.  It 
is  true,  that  in  the  bock  of  Genesis  many  conversa- 
tions are  given  ;  and  in  various  instances,  no  doubt, 
thr^  very  words  employed  by  the  speakers  have  been 


232  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

preserved  ;  but  none  of  these  having  been  artificially 
constructed  for  the  purpose  of  identifying  and  per- 
petuating the  sentiments  with  the  phraseology,  they 
corae  not  under  that  definition  of  literature  which 
has  been  assumed  in  this  essay ;  in  fact,  they  are 
themselves  integral  portions  of  a  literary  work ; 
namely,  the  first  book  of  Moses,  w^hich  belongs  to  a 
later  period.  Undoubtedly  traditions  of  what  had 
been  said,  as  well  as  what  had  been  done,  by  patri- 
archs and  eminent  personages  were  perpetuated  in 
families  through  all  generations,  from  Adam  down- 
ward ;  but  as  it  was  enough  for  the  purposes  of  tra- 
dition that  events  and  discourses  should  be  substan- 
tially true,  every  one  who  repeated  either  would  do 
so  in  his  own  language,  rudely  or  eloquently,  accord- 
ing to  his  taste  or  talent.  Indeed,  to  sum  up  in  a 
few  sentences  what  had  been  delivered  in  a  long 
dialogue,  it  was  so  far  from  being  necessary,  that  it 
was  obviously  impossible  to  use  the  actual  words 
of  the  speakers,  even  if  they  had  been  remembered. 
In  one  instance,  however,  without  violating  prob- 
ability, an  exception  may  be  made  in  favour  of  the 
speech  of  Judah  to  Joseph,  when  he  and  his  brethren 
had  been  brought  back  to  Egypt  by  the  stratagem 
of  putting  the  silver  cup  into  Benjamin's  sack.  This 
address  is  perhaps  the  finest  piece  of  pleading  ever 
reported,  though  nothing  can  be  more  simple  and 
inartificial  than  the  diction  and  arrangement  of  the 
whole.  In  truth,  it  is  little  else  than  a  family  his- 
tory, with  the  principal  incidents  of  which  Joseph 
himself  was  well  acquainted,  and  in  the  most  afiliict- 
ive  of  which  he  had  borne  his  bitter  part.  There  is, 
moreover,  a  dramatic  interest  in  the  scene,  arising 
from  the  reader's  being  in  the  secret  of  Joseph's 
consciousness;  and  thence  knowing  that  the  force 
of  every  fact  and  argument  was  far  more  searching 
and  heart-melting  to  the  hearer  than  the  speaker 
himself  could  imagine,  from  his  ignornnce  of  the 
person  whom  he  was  addressing.     I  must  not  quote 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  233 

more  than  one  paragraph,  referring  to  a  conversa- 
tion between  them  on  their  former  visit  to  Egypt. 
Judah  says  to  .Joseph, 

"  xMy  lord  asked  his  servants,  saying.  Have  ye  a 
father  or  a  brother  1  And  we  said  unto  my  lord,  We 
have  a  father,  an  old  man — and  a  child  of  his  old  age, 
a  little  one  ;  and  his  brother  is  dead,  and  he  alone 
is  left  of  his  mother — and  his  father  loveth  him." 

Is  not  this  the  voice  of  nature  speaking  with  hu- 
man lips,  and  speaking  to  all  the  affections  that  make 
life  precious  1 — "  an  old  man" — "  a  father" — "  a  child 
of  his  old  age" — "  a  little  one" — "  whose  brother  was 
dead" — "  he  left  alone  of  his  mother,  and  his  father 
loveth  him."  Love,  in  man  at  least,  can  go  no  fur- 
ther— in  woman  perhaps  it  may.  Now,  as  Judah 
must  be  supposed  to  have  prepared  his  appeal  for 
this  interview,  the  speech  itself  may  be  considered 
as  the  earliest  specimen  of  eloquence :  and  surely, 
in  its  kind,  it  has  never  been  surpassed.  I  have 
dwelt  the  more  on  this  specimen,  because  it  is 
the  model  of  almost  every  other  regular  speech  that 
can  be  found  in  the  sacred  Scriptures.  In  these, 
recapitulatory  narrative  brings  home  to  the  hearers 
the  peculiar  deduction  which  the  speaker  would  es- 
tablish,- having,  as  it  were,  bylines  of  eircumval- 
lation,  completely  secured  access  to  every  point  of 
attack  at  once,  he  carries  by  storm  at  last  the  object 
of  his  harangue.  The  whole  book  of  Deuteronomy 
furnishes  a  series  of  such  historical  arguments ; 
Moses  therein  addressing,  as  with  the  living  voice, 
the  people  whom  he  had  brought  out  of  Egypt,  and 
ied  during  forty  years  in  the  wilderness.  And  these 
consecutive  discourses  were  probably  so  delivered  to 
the  tribes  bodily  assembled  from  time  to  time,  to 
receive  instruction  from  the  lips  of  a  legislator,  who 
could  call  the  heavens  and  the  earth  to  be  his  au- 
ditors, and  say  with  authority,  "  My  doctrine  shall 
drop  as  the  rain  ;  my  speech  shall  distil  as  the  dew ; 


234  A     RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

as  the  small  rain  upon  the  tender  herb,  and  as  the 
showers  upon  the  grass." 

Joshua's  exhortation  to  the  elders  before  his  death 
— Samuel's  remonstrance  with  the  Israelites  for 
their  perverseness  in  demanding  a  king — Solomon's 
speech  to  the  people  before  the  dedication  of  the 
temple — Daniel's  confession  of  the  sins  of  the  cap- 
tives in  Babylon,  and  their  forefathers — Ezra's  prayer 
after  the  return  of  the  Jews  to  their  own  land,  laid 
desolate ;  and,  in  the  New  Testament,  Peter's  ser- 
mon on  the  day  of  Pentecost — Stephen's  discourse 
before  the  sanhedrim — and  Paul's  two  defences  be- 
fore the  council  and  before  Agrippa — these  are  all 
of  the  same  class  of  oratory  in  which  the  details  are 
long,  the  arguments  hrief,  and  the  conclusion  per- 
sonal ;  so  that  this  peculiar  mode  of  eloquence  may 
be  traced  for  two  thousand  years ;  and  probably, 
from  its  plainness  and  energy  of  application,  was 
usual  among  all  the  eastern  people. 

But  whatever  maybe  conjectured  concerning  arti- 
ficial prose  before  the  invention  of  writing,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  verse  existed  from  the  infancy  of  the  world, 
and  v/as  employed  for  history,  laws,  chronology, 
devotion,,  oracles,  love,  war,  fables,  proverbs,  and 
prophecy  ;  indeed,  for  every  combination  of  thoughts 
which  were  intended  to  be  long  and  w^ell  remem- 
bered 

Invention  of  Letters. 

Having  now  arrived  at  that  period  where  sacred 
and  profane  history  meet — the  former  like  a  clear 
stream  issuing  from  a  known  fountain,  and  defined 
along  its  wliole  course  through  a  peopled  and  cul- 
tivated region ;  the  latter,  dimly  and  slowly  dis- 
entangling its  mazes  from  the  shades  of  impenelra- 
blo  forests, 

"  Where  thing's  Uiat  own  not  man's  doinuiion  dwell," 

Bvi:nN 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  235 

but  henceforward  widening-,  deepening,  brightening 
on  its  way — the  first  subject  that  claims  our  atten- 
tion is  the  learning-  of  the  Egyptians,  of  which  much 
has  been  said,  and  little  is  known.  The  testimony, 
however,  of  all  antiquity,  as  well  as  the  superb  and 
stupendous  monuments  of  architecture,  and  traces 
of  literature  in  the  sh-ape  of  hieroglyphics  and  sym- 
bols, however  unintelligible,  prove  that  they  were  a 
wonderful  people  for  gigantic  enterprise  and  inde- 
fatigable industry,  in  achieving  what  were  then  the 
highest  feats  of  manual,  intellectual,  and  mechanic 
power.  On  these  we  shall  not  expatiate  here,  as 
another  oppoitunity  will  be  afforded  in  the  next 
paper  of  this  series,  of  considering  by  whom,  and 
by  what  means,  such  marvellous  works  were  ex- 
ecuted. At  present  we  shall  only  allude  to  them 
generally,  in  connexion  with  the  discovery  of  alpha- 
betical writing.  When,  where,  and  by  whom  let- 
ters were  invented  it  is  now  in  vain  to  imagine. 
Notwithstanding  the  pretensions  of  Hermes  Tris- 
megistos,  Memnon,  Cadmus,  and  others,  the  true 
history,  nay,  even  the  personal  existence  of  these 
supposed  claimants,  must  be  ascertained  before  the 
unappropriated  honour  can  be  conceded  to  any  one 
of  them.  It  may,  meanwhile,  be  affirmed,  as  one 
of  those  circumstances  humbling  to  human  pride 
that  occasionally  occur  in  history,  and  which,  while 
they  strangely  stir  the  imagination,  awaken  sub- 
lime but  melancholy  reflection  in  minds  given  to 
muse  upon  the  vanity  and  mortality  of  all  the  things 
that  are  done  under  the  sun — it  may  be  affirmed  as 
one  of  these  humbling  circumstances,  that  the  man 
who  conquered  the  greatest  tropliy  ever  won  from 
fate  and  oblivion,  lost  his  ov/n  name,  after  divulging 
the.secretby  which  others  might  immortalize  theirs. 
As  a  figure  of  speech,  one  may.be  allowed  to  wish  that 
the  first  letters  in  which  he  wrote  that  name,  whe- 
her  with  a  pen  of  iron  on  granite,  or  with  his  finger 


236  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

in  sand,  had  remained  indelible.  Bui  his  own  inven- 
tion is  his  monument,  which,  like  the  undated  and 
uninscribed  pyramid,  will  remain  a  wonder  and  a 
riddle  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

It  is  allowed,  I  believe,  on  all  hands,  that  the 
Egyptians,  from  time  whereof  the  memory  of  man 
knoweth  not  to  the  contrary,  possessed  three  kinds 
of  writing-, — hieroglyphical,  alphabetical,  and,  proba- 
bly, as  a  link  between,  logographic,  of  which  latter 
the  Chinese  is  the  only  surviving  example  at  this 
day.  Indeed,  in  all  countries  where  society  has 
emerged  from  the  stagnation  of  barbarism,  and  has 
made  but  httle  advance  towards  civilization,  there 
have  been  found  evidences  of  attempts  to  create  a 
language  for  the  eye,  either  by  figures  of  things,  by 
arbitrary  symbols  of  words,  or,  in  the  most  perfect 
manner,  by  the  systematic  combination  of  lines  form- 
ing letters  to  represent  the  rudiments  of  sounds. 
This  assertion  might  be  copiously  illustrated,  but  the 
limits  of  the  present  essay  will  permit  no  more  than 
a  cursory  mention  of  the  fact. 

It  has  been  observed  that  the  Egyptians  were  in 
possession  of  three  kinds  of  letters, — if,  indeed,  by 
letters  three  kinds  of  learning  be  not  typified;  for 
Pythagoras,  it  is  said,  as  a  special  favour  rarely 
granted  to  a  stranger,  was  initiated  into  these  triple 
mysteries  of  writing.  The  hieroglyphic  mode  was 
unquestionably  the  first;  but  between  it  and  the  lit- 
eral the  affinity  is  so  remote  that  the  leap  over  the 
whole  space  could  scarcely  have  been  taken  at  once, 
especially  as  there  is  an  intervening  step  so  obvi- 
ously connected  with  each,  and  connecting  them  with 
one  another,  that  it  seems  almost  necessary  for  in- 
vention to  have  rested,  at  least  for  a  little  while,  upon 
it.  When  the  ambiguity  and  imperfection  of  hiero- 
glyphics were  felt  to  be  irremediable,  the  first  prac- 
ticable scheme  which  would  suggest  itself  to  the  mind 
which  conceived  the  happy  idea  of  designating  vocal 
sounds  bv  strokes,  in  themselves  without  meaning. 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  237 

would  be  tc  invent  a  separate  mark  for  every  word  ; 
but,  as  all  the  easy  forms  would  soon  be  exhausted, 
it  might  next  occur  to  make  these  elementary,  and 
adapt  them,  not  to  individual  words,  but  to  the  mos* 
common  simple  sounds  of  which  words  were  com- 
posed. Thus  monosyllables  woi^ld  have  a  single 
mark;  dissyllables  two  joined  together;  and  poly- 
syllables more  or  less,  according  to  their  audible 
divisions. 

But  still  this  apparatus  would  be  difficult  and  per- 
plexing from  the  multitude  of  signs  necessary ;  till 
a  finer  ear,  trying  syllables  more  accurately,  would 
unravel  sound  as  Newton's  prism  unravelled  light, 
and  discover  its  primary  intonations  as  he  discov- 
ered the  primary  colours.  Thus  the  alphabet  would 
be  gradually  developed ;  and  a  familiar  sign  being 
attached  to  each  letter,  a  new  creation  of  intelligible 
forms  for  imbodying  thought  would  arise  where  all 
was  silent,  dark,  and  spiritless  before.  The  lumber- 
ing, unwieldy  logographic  machinery  is  now  con- 
fined to  the  unimproving  and  unimproveable  Chinese, 
whose  inveterate  characteristic  seems  to  be,  that 
they  obtained  a  certain  modicum  of  knowledge  early, 
which  for  thousands  of  years  they  have  neither 
enlarged  nor  diminished.  They  have  lent  out  their 
intellects  at  simple  interest,  and  have  been  content 
to  live  upon  the  annual  income,  without  ever  dreaming 
that  both  capital  and  product  might  be  immensely 
increased  by  being  invented  in  the  commerce  of 
minds — the  commerce  of  all  others  the  most  infalli- 
bly lucrative,  and  in  which  the  principles  of  free 
trade  are  cardinal  virtues. 

This  theory  of  the  process  by  which  letters  were 
gradually  invented  has  been  actually  exemplifiarl  ir 
our  own  day.  A  Cherokee  chief,  having  heard  that 
white  men  could  communicate  their  thoughts  by 
means  of  certain  figures  impressed  on  soft  or  hard 
substances,  set  himself  the  task  of  in^'entiiig  a  series 
of  strokes,  straight  and  crooked,  up,  down,  and  across, 


9■'^9  A    RETROSPECT    OF     LITKRATUKK. 

which  should  represePxt  all  the  words  in  the  Iiidiai? 
laiiOTa^e.  These,  however,  became  so  numerous, 
and  so  refractory  in  their  resemblances,  that  he  must 
hnve  given  up  the  work  in  despair  had  he  not  recol- 
lected ttiat  the  sounds,  or  syllables,  of  vv^hich  ail 
words  consisted,  were  comparatively  few,  though 
rapable  of  infinite  coo?bmation.  To  these,  then,  he 
ar-nHed  his  most  approved  symbols,  which,  in  the 
course  of  time,  he'  reduced  to  two  hundred  ;  and 
iatierly,  it  is  said  that  he  has  brought  them  down 
as  low  as  eighty ;  and  that  by  these  he  can  accu- 
rately express  the  whole  vocabulary  of  his  mother- 
t"o?".gue.  It  is  to  be  observed,  in  abatement  of  this 
jrorvellous  effort  of  a  savage  mind,  that  the  primary 
idea  of  loriting  was  suggested  to  it,  not  originally 
conceived  by  it. 

So  beneficent  to  man  has  been  the  invention  of 
letters,  that  some  have  ascribed  it  to  the  immediate 
instruction  of  the  Almighty,  communicated  to  Mo- 
se«  when  the  two  tables  of  stone,  containing  the 
Dtfcalogue,  written  by  the  finger  of  God,  were  de- 
livered to  him  on  the  mount.  For  this  there  ap- 
pears 10  me  no  evidence  that  will  bear  the  test  of  a 
moment's  calm  consideration.  Of  the  Supreme 
Being  we  know  nothing  but  what  He  has  been 
pleased  to  manifest  concerning  himself  in  his  w^orks 
and  in  his  Word.  To  the  volumes  of  nature  and 
of  revelation  man  must  no  more  presume  to  add 
than  to  diminish  aught.  In  neither  of  these  can 
we  find  that  letters  were  thus  miraculously  given ; 
it  therefore  cannot  be  admitted,  nay,  it  must  be  re- 
jected, so  long  as  all  probability  is  against  the  sup- 
position. 

IMan,  in  every  progressive  state  of  society'-,  how- 
ever insulated  from  the  rest  of  the  w^orld,  endeavours 
to  express  his  feelings  and  perpetuate  his  actions  by 
imagery  or  mnemonics  of  some  kind  :  now  these,  so 
long  as  he  continues  to  improve  in  knowledge,  will, 
in  the  same  degree,  be  more  and  more  simplified  in 


A    RETKOSPFCr    OF     LITKRATURly  239 

rorm,  yet  more  and  more  adapted  to  every  diversity 
and  complexity  of  thoiii:^ht.  Nay,  it  is  not  too  bold 
to  assume,  that,  thus  circumstanced,  man,  by  the 
help  of  reasoning,  reflecting,  and  comparing,  would 
as  naturall)^ — yea,  as  necessarily — be  led  to  the  in- 
vention of  alphabetical  characters,  as  the  young  of 
animals,  when  they  are  cast  off  by  their  dams,  are 
led  by  an  ineffable  faculty,  which  we  call  instinct,  to 
all  those  functions  and  habits  of  life  which  are  requi- 
site both  for  existence  and  enjoyment,  and  which 
their  parents  never  could  exemplify  before  them 
during  their  brief  connexion.  Birds  may  be  ima- 
gined to  teach  their  offspring  how  to  eat,  to  fly,  to 
Bing ;  but  no  bird  ever  taught  another  how  to  build  a 
nest, — no  bird  ever  taught  another  how  to  brood 
crver  eggs  till  they  were  quickened  into  life  ;  yet 
every  linnet  hatched  this  year  will  build  her  nest 
next  spring  as  perfectly  as  the  first  of  her  ancestors 
in  the  bowers  of  Eden  ;  and,  though  she  never  knew 
a  mother's  warmth  brfore,  so  soon  as  her  own  first 
eggs  are  laid  she  will  sit  upon  them,  in  obedience  to 
a  kindly  and  mysterious  law  of  nature,  which  will 
change  her  very  character  for  the  time,  inspire  her 
with  courage  for  timidity,  and  patience  for  vivacity ; 
imposing  on  her  confinement  instead  of  freedom,  and 
self-denial  in  the  room  of  self-indulgence,  till  her 
little  fluttering  family  are  all  disclosed,  and  reared, 
and  fledged,  and  flown. 

If  external  circumstances  thus  conduct  every  irra- 
tional creature,  individually^  to  the  knowledge  and 
acquirement  of  all  that  is  necessary  for  its  peculiar 
state, — it  see.nr.s  to  follow,  as  a  parallelism  in  Provi- 
dence, that  man  in  society,  at  one  period  or  another 
m  his  progress  of  improvement  in  knowledge,  would 
inevitably  discoveroi/  the  means  by  which  knowledge 
might  be  most  successfully  obtained  and  secured ; 
these  being  as  necessary  to  the  rank  which  he  holds 
n  creation  as  the  respective  functions  of  inferior 
Rnimals  are  to  their  different  conditions      !  Crinnoi. 


240  A    RKTROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE 

however,  allow  it  to  be  said,  because  I  thus  state  the 
question,  that  I  derogate  from  the  glory  of  God  by 
not  attributing  immediately  to  him  what  he  has  no- 
where claimed  for  himself,  in  the  only  book  written 
by  his  command.  To  Him  nothing  is  impossible ; 
with  Him  nothing  is  great  or  small,  easy  or  difficult. 
His  power  is  not  more  magnified  by  working  mira- 
cles, than  it  was  by  ordaining,  or  than  it  is  by  up- 
holding, the  regular  course  of  nature.  "  There  is  a 
spirit  in  man,  and  the  breath  of  the  Almighty  givetb 
him  understanding."  Is  it  less,  then,  to  say  of  the 
Almighty,  that,  by  the  understanding  which  he  gave, 
man  found  out  the  divine  art  of  writing  (for  divine 
in  this  connexion  it  may  be  called),  than  to  suppose, 
without  any  proof,  that  this  art  is  so  superhuman 
that  it  could  not  have  been  discovered  unless  it  had 
been  absolutely  revealed  by  the  Deity? — No,  surely  ; 
for  though  he  made  man  a  little  lower  than  the 
angels,  yet  hath  he  crowned  him  with  glory  and 
honour;  and,  to  speak  after  tho  manner  of  men,  the 
more  exalted  the  creature  is  found,  the  more  praise 
redounds  to  the  Creator,  who  is  "  God  over  all,  and 
blessed  for  evermore." 


Modes  of  Writmg. 

That  the  art  of  writing  was  practised  in  Egypt 
before  the  emancipation  of  the  Israelites,  appears 
almost  certain  from  their  frequent  and  familiar  men- 
tion of  this  mode  of  keeping  memorials.  When  the 
people  had  provoked  the  Lord  to  wrath,  by  making 
and  worshipping  the  golden  calf,  Moaes,  interceding 
m  their  behalf,  says,  "Yet  now,  if  thou  wilt  forgive 
their  sin  ;  and  if  not,  blot  me,  I  pray  thee,  or.t  of  thy 
book  which  thou  hast  written.  And  the  Lord  said 
unto  Moses,  Whosoever  sinneth,  him  will  I  blot  out 
of  ray  book."*    The  allusion  h-ere  is  to  a  table  of 

*  Exod.  xxxii  .12,  .^3. 


A     KK.TKOSPt  fi     OF     !,i  IKKA  J  liUK.  241 

genealoffy,  the  muster-roll  of  ;!m  anny,  u  register  of 
citizensliip,  or  even  to  tliosc  books  of  chronicles 
which  were  kept  by  order  of  ancient  oriental  princes, 
of  the  events  of  their  reigns,  for  reference  and 
remembrance.  Besides,  such  a  mode  of  publishing 
important  documents  is  alluded  to,  not  merely  as 
nothing  new,  but  as  if  even  the  common  people  were 
practically  acquainted  with  it,  "  And  thou  shalt  bind 
them  (the  statutes  and  testimonies  of  the  Lord)  as  a 
sign  upon  thine  hand,  and  they  shall  be  as  frontlets 
between  thme  eyes,  and  thou  shalt  write  them  upon 
the  posts  of  thine  house,  and  upon  all  thy  gates.'"* 
There  are  various  parallel  passages  which  no  cavil- 
ling of  commentators  can  convert  from  plain  mean 
ing  into  paradox. 

But  not  the  Egyptians  and  Hebrews  alone  pos- 
sessed this  invaluable  knowledge  at  the  time  of  which 
we  speak  (from  fourteen  to  seventeen  hundred  years 
before  Christ) ;  we  have  direct  and  incidental  testi- 
mony, both  in  sacred  and  profane  history,  that  the 
Phenicians,  Arabians,  and  Chaldeans  were  instructed 
in  the  same.  The  book  of  Job  (whoever  might  be 
the  author)  lays  the  scene  and  the  season  of  his 
affliction  about  this  era,  and  in  the  north  of  Arabia. 
That  extraordinary  composition — extraordinary  in- 
deed, whether  it  be  regarded  as  an  historical,  dramatic, 
or  poetic  performance — contains  more  curious  and 
minute  information  concerning  the  manners  and 
customs,  the  literature  and  philosophy,  the  state  of 
arts  and  sciences,  during  the  patriarchal  ages,  than 
can  be  collected  in  scattered  hints  from  all  later  works 
put  together.  In  reference  to  the  art  and  the  mate- 
rials of  writing  then  in  use,  we  meet  with  the  fol- 
lowing sublime  and  affecting  apostrophe  : — "  O  that 
my  v/ords  were  now  written  !  O  that  they  were 
printed  {impressed  or  traced  out)  in  a  book !  That 
they  were  graven  with  an  iron  pen  and  lead,  in  the 
rociv  for  ever !" 

*  Deut.  vi.  8, 9. 
T 


242  A    RKTKOSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

The  latter  aspiration  probably  alludes  to  the  very 
ancient  practice  of  hewing-  characters  into  the  faces 
of  vast  rocks,  as  eternal  memorials  of  persons  and 
events.  It  is  said  by  travellers  whose  testimony 
seems  worthy  of  credence,  that  various  fragments 
of  such  inscriptions,  now  utterly  undecipherable, 
may  be  seen  to  this  day  in  the  wildernesses  of  Ara- 
bia Petrea — monuments  at  once  of  the  grasp  and  the 
limitation  of  the  mental  power  of  man ;  thus  making 
the  hardest  substances  in  nature  the  depositories 
of  his  thoughts,  and  yet  betrayed  in  his  ambitious 
expectation  of  so  perpetuating  them.  The  slow 
influences  of  the  elements  have  been  incessantly, 
though  insensibly,  obliterating  what  the  chisel  had 
ploughed  into  the  solid  marble,  till  at  length  nothing 
remains  but  a  mockery  of  skeleton  letters,  so  unlike 
their  pristine  forms,  so  unable  to  explain  their  own 
meaning,  that  you  might  as  well  seek  among  the 
human  relics  in  a  charnel-vault  the  resemblances  of  ' 
the  once-living  personages, — or  invoke  the  dead 
bones  to  tell  their  own  history, — as  question  these 
dumb  rocks  concerning  the  records  engraven  on 
them. 

The  passage  just  quoted  shows  the  state  of  alpha- 
betical writing  in  the  age  of  .Tob,  and,  according  to 
the  best  commentators,  he  describes  three  modes  of 
exercising  it : — "  O  that  my  words  were  now  writ- 
ten,— traced  out  in  characters, — in  a  book  composed 
of  palm-leaves,  or  on  a  roll  of  linen  !  O  that  they 
were  engraven  with  a  pen  of  iron  on  tablets  of  lead, 
or  indented  in  the  solid  rock  to  endure  to  the  end  of 
time  !"  Arguing  against  the  perverse  sophistry  of 
his  friends  that  he  must  have  been  secretly  a  wicked 
man,  because  such  awful  calamities,  which  they  con- 
strued into  divine  judgments,  had  befallen  him  ;  so 
fast  does  he  hold  his  integrity,  that,  not  only  with 
passing  words,  liable  to  be  forgotten  as  soon  as 
uttered,  does  he  maintain  it;  but  by  every  mode 
that  could  give  his  expressions  publicity  and  ensure 


A    RETIIOSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  243 

them  perpetuity,  he  longs  that  his  confidence  in  God 
to  vindicate  him  might  be  recorded,  whatever  might 
be  the  issue  of  those  evils  to  himself,  even  though 
he  were  brought  down  by  them  to  death  and  corrup- 
tion, descending,  not  only  with  sorrow,  but  with 
ignominy  to  the  grave  ;  for,  saith  he, 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  He 
shall  stand  at  the  latter  day  on  the  earth ;  and 
though  after  my  vskin  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet 
in  my  flesh  shall  1  see  God,  whom  I  shall  see  for 
myself,  and  mine  eyes  shall  behold,  though  my  reins 
be  consumed  within  me." — Job  xix.  25-27. 

Had  these  words  of  the  patriarch  been  indeed 
"  engraven  with  a  pen  of  iron  on  the  rock  for  ever," 
yet  without  some  more  certain  medium  of  transmis- 
sion to  posterity,  they  would  have  been  unknown  at 
this  day,  or  only  speaking  in  the  desert  with  the 
voice  of  silence,  which  no  eye  could  interpret,  no 
mind  could  hear.  But,  being  inscribed  on  materials 
as  frail  as  the  leaves  in  my  hand,  yet  capable  of 
infinitely  multiplied  transcription,  they  can  never  be 
lost ;  for  thousrh  the  giant-characters  enchased  in 
everlasting  flint,  would  ere  now  have  been  worn 
down  by  the  perpetual  foot  of  time,  yet,  committed 
with  feeble  ink  to  perishable  paper,  liable  "  to  be 
crushed  before  the  moth,"  or  destroyed  by  the  touch 
of  fire  or  water,  the  good  man's  hope  can  never  fail, 
even  on  earth ;  it  w^as  "  a  hope  full  of  immortality  ;' 
and  still  through  all  ages,  and  in  all  lands,  while  the  sun 
and  moon  endure,  it  shall  be  said  by  people  of  every 
kindred  and  nation,  and  in  every  tongue  spoken 
under  heaven,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth." 

Sacred  Literature. 

We  must  here  conclude  what  the  limits  of  this 
brief  essay  will  permit  to  be  said  respecting  the 
literature  of  the  Bible,  the  first  five  books  of  which 
contain  examples  of  every  species  of  writing  and 


244  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

discourse  in  use  among'  the  Jews — poetry  and  prose, 
eloquence,  ethics,  legislation,  history,  biography, 
prophecy.  It  may  be  added,  that  the  narrative  por- 
tions especially  are  of  inimitable  simplicity ;  they 
breathe  a  pathos,  and  at  times  exercise  a  power  over 
the  affections,  which  no  compositions  extant  besides 
them  have  equalled,  except  some  passages  of  rare 
occurrence  in  the  subsequent  books  of  the  Hebrew 
Scriptures  and  the  New  Testament.  The  historian 
presents  men,  manners,  and  incidents  to  the  eye,  the 
mind,  and  the  sympathies  of  the  reader  precisely  in 
the  way  that  they  impressed  his  own.  This  is  the 
uniform  style  of  the  inspired  penman  in  his  highest 
mood  : — "  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens 
and  the  earth.  And  the  earth  was  without  form  and 
void  ;  and  darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep ; 
and  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters.  And  God  said,  '  Let  there  be  light,'  and 
there  was  light." — Gen.  i.  1-3. 

In  scenes  of  com.mon  life  and  the  intercourse, 
between  man  and  man,  nothing  can  be  more  deli- 
cately  true  to  nature  than  the  light  touches  of  a 
hand  that  could  sketch  such  a  scene  as  the  follow- 
ing,— the  picture  composed  of  words  having  this 
advantage  over  any  picture  drawn  with  lines  and 
colours ;  that,  whereas  the  latter  can  exhibit  but 
one  moment,  and  ojily  imply  discourse,  the  former 
can  express  motion,  speech,  and  progress — the  be- 
ginning, middle,  and  end  of  the  action  represented. 
How  graceful,  and  yet  how  emphatic,  are  the  orien- 
tol  pleonasms  in  Jacob's  reply  to  Pharaoh's  simple 
question. 

"  And  Joseph  brought  in  Jacob  his  father,  and  set 
him  befo*-e  Pharaoh;  and  Jacob  blessed  Pharaoh. 

"And  Pharaoh  said  unto  Jacob,  'How  old  art 
thou  ?' 

"And  Jacob  said  unto  Pharaoh,  '  The  days  of  the 
years  of  my  pilgrimage  are  one  hundred  and  thirty 
years;  few  and  evil  have  the  days  of  the  years  of 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  245 

my  life  been,  and  have  not  attained  unto  the  days  of 
the  years  of  the  hfe  of  my  fathers,  in  the  days  of 
their  pilgrimage.' 

"  And  Jacob  blessed  Pharaoh,  and  went  out  from 
before  Pharaoh."* 

Of  the  remaining  books  of  Scripture  (all  of  which 
are  more  or  less  conformed  to  these  primitive 
models)  it  will  not  be  expedient  to  enter  into  further 
particulars  than  to  offer  an  example  of  the  perfec- 
tion to  which  the  most  perfect  of  all  the  forms  of 
literary  composition  was  carried  by  him  who,  both 
as  prophet  and  minstrel,  is  distinguished  by  the  title 
of  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel.  Considered  merely  as 
an  emanation  of  genius,  conceived  in  the  happiest 
frame  of  mind,  and  executed  with  force  and  elegance 
corresponding, — the  104th  Psalm  may  not  only  be 
quoted  in  competition  with  any  other  similar  product 
of  fine  taste,  but  may,  indeed,  be  placed  as  the 
standard  by  which  descriptive  poetry  itself  ought  to 
be  measured  and  estimated  as  it  approaches  or  falls 
short  of  the  excellence  of  such  a  model.  This 
divine  song  is  a  meditation  on  the  mighty  power  and 
wonderful  providence  of  God.  It  begins  with  an 
apostrophe  to  Him,  as  "  clothed  with  honour  and 
majesty,  who  covereth  Himself  with  light  as  a  gar- 
ment, who  stretcheth  out  the  heavens  like  the  curtain 
of  a  tent,  who  layeth  the  beams  of  his  chambers  in 
the  waters,  who  maketh  the  cloriids  his  chariot,  who 
walketh  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind." 

Then  follow  exhibitions  of  Almighty  power  in  cre- 
ation, when  "  He  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth, 
that  it  should  not  be  removed  for  ever;"  and  in 
destruction,  when,  at  the  deluge,  "  the  waters  stood 
above  the  mountains,"  but  having  accomplished  their 
ministry  of  wrath,  "  at  (His)  rebuke  they  fled;  at 
the  voice  of  (His)  thunder  they  hasted  away." 

This  scene  of  devastation  is  succeeded  by  one  of 
amenity  and  fruitfulness,  exquisitely  delineated  :—• 

♦  Gen.  xlvii.  7-* 


246  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

"  He  sendeth  the  springs  into  the  valleys  which  run 
among  the  hills.  They  give  drink  to  every  beast 
of  the  field  ;  the  wild  asses  quench  their  thirst.  By 
them  shall  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  their  habitation, 
which  sing  among  the  branches."  The  earth  is 
represented  as  pouring  forth  from  her  lap  the  abun- 
dance of  food  for  man  and  beast.  The  habits  of 
various  animals  are  accurately  noted.  The  revolu- 
tions of  the  heavenly  bodies,  bringing  day  and  night, 
and  the  change  of  seasons  are  next  reviewed  and 
celebrated  in  strains  rivalling  their  own,  when  "  the 
morning  stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouted  for  joy."  Afterward  the  great  and  wide 
sea,  in  its  depths,  is  disclosed,  and  exhibited  as  a 
world  of  enjoyment  as  infinitely  extended  as  the 
endless  diversities  of  its  strange  population  of  living 
things  innumerable,  "  both  great  and  small." 

One  passage,  and  but  one  more,  must  not  be  passed 
over,  the  picturesque  reality  of  which  will  be  per- 
ceived by  all  who  have  a  heart  to  feel  horror,  or  an 
eye  to  rejoice  in  beauty  : — "  Thou  makest  darkness, 
and  it  is  night :  wherein  all  the  beasts  of  the  forest 
do  creep  forth. — The  young  lions  roar  after  their 
prey,  and  seek  their  meat  from  God. — The  sun 
ariseth;  they  gather  themselves  together,  and  lay 
them  down  in  their  dens. — Man  goeth  forth  unto  his 
work  and  his  labour  until  the  evening. — O  Lord ! 
how  manifold  are  thy  works !  in  wisdom  hast  thou 
made  them  all." 

The  remaining  unquoted  passages  of  this  Psalm 
are  worthy  of  the  foregoing,  especially  the  verses 
which  describe  animal  life,  death,  and  resuscitation, 
by  the  breathing,  withdrawing,  or  regenerating  in- 
fluence of  that  Divine  Spirit  which  at  first  "  moved 
upon  the  waters."  Who,  after  reading  the  whole  ot 
this  sublime  strain,  can  forbear  to  exclaim,  with  the 
royal  Psalmist,  at  the  close  : — "  Bless  Thou  the 
Lord,  O  my  soul !"  and  then  invoke  all  living  to  do 
the  same — "  Praise  ye  the  Lord." 


£l  retrospect  cf  literature.        247 


No.  II. 

Literature  of  the  Hindoos. 

Ai/rHouGH  the  modern  Hindoos  are  generally  dis- 
l.insruished  by  deplorable  mental  as  well  as  bodily 
imbecility,  they  arc  the  descendants  of  ancestors  not 
less  conspicuous  both  for  intellectual  and  physical 
power.  Learning-  rs  said  to  have  flourished  in  India 
before  it  was  cultivated  m  Egypt,  and  some  have 
assumed  that  it  was  from  beyond  the  Indus  that  the 
Nile  itself  was  first  visited  with  the  orient  beams  of 
knowledge.  The  modern  Hindoos,  however,  in  their 
uiuitterable  degradation,  are  only  careful  to  preserve 
the  monuments  of  their  forefathers'  glory  and  intel- 
ligence in  the  stupendous  ruins,  or,  rather,  in  the 
imperishable  skeletons  of  their  temples,  and  in  their 
sacred  and  scientific  books.  But  the  latter  being 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  the  Brahmins,  few  of  v/hom 
understand  much  of  their  contents,  are  impregnabl}' 
sealed  from  the  researches  of  the  multitude. 

The  astronomical  tables  of  the  ancient  Indians  are 
yet  the  admiration  of  Europeans,  considering  the 
disadvantages  under  which  they  were  framed ;  and 
if  there  remained  no  other  discernible  traces  of  learn- 
ing, these  would  mark  a  high  degree  of  civilization 
among  the  people  that  could  calculate  them.  Dwell- 
ing, like  their  contemporaries  the  Chaldeans  and 
Babylonians,  in  immense  plains,  where,  over  an  un- 
broken circle  of  horizon  below,  a  perfect  hemisphere 
of  sky  was  expanded  above,  they  watched  the  mo- 
tions of  the  stars,  while  they  guarded  thoir  flocks  by 
night,  and  learned  to  read  with  certainty,  in  the 
phases  of  the  heavens,  the  signs  of  times  and  sea- 
sons  useful  to  the  husbandman  and    the  mariner 


248  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

But,  unsatisfied  with  these,  they  vainly  endeavoured 
to  find  out  what  the  heavens  could  not  teach — the 
destinies  of  individuals  and  the  revolutions  of  em- 
pires. 

The  sacred  books  of  the  Hindoos,  which  are  yet 
preserved  (so  far  as  their  authenticity  can  be  deemed 
probable,  and  their  institutes  have  been  explored), 
display  a  corresponding  elegance  of  style,  simplicity 
of  thought,  and  purity  of  doctrine,  in  all  these  re- 
spects differing  essentially  from  the  monstrous  fables, 
the  bloody  precepts,  and  shocking  abominations  with 
which  their  more  modern  writings  abound.  The 
affinity  between  the  architecture  and  hieroglyphics 
of  India  and  Egypt  indicates  the  common  origin  of 
both,  and  almost  necessarily  implies  the  senior  claims 
of  the  former ;  for  science,  like  empire,  has  uniformly 
travelled  westward  in  its  great  cycle,  whatever  oc- 
casional retrogradation  may  have  been  caused  by 
disturbing  forces.  Egypt,  with  all  its  wonders,  can 
boast  nothing  so  magnificent  as  the  Caves  of  Elora, 
consisting  of  a  series  of  temples,  sixteen  in  number, 
a  mile  and  a  half  in  length,  and  each  from  a  hundred 
to  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  breadth,  with  heights 
proportioned,  all  sculptured  out  of  the  live  rock  by 
labour  incalculable,  and  with  skill  only  equalled  by 
the  grandeur  of  the  edifices  on  which  they  have  been 
expended.  Edifices,  however,  they  are  not,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word.  The  men  of  those  days 
found  in  the  heart  of  their  country  a  mountain  of 
granite  equal  to  the  site  of  a  modern  city.  They 
excavated  the  solid  mass,  not  building  up,  but  bring- 
ing out,  like  the  statue  from  the  marble,  the  multi- 
tudinous design ;  shaping  sanctuaries,  with  their 
roofs  and  walls,  and  decorating  them  with  gigantic 
images  and  shrines,  by  removing  the  fragments  as 
they  were  hewn  away,  till  the  whole  was  presented 
standing  upon  innumerable  pillars,  left  in  the  places 
where  they  had  been  identified  with  the  original 
block ;  the" range  of  temples,  from  the  flint  pavement , 


\  R!<:TuosiH:cr  of  literature.  24'J 

to  the  vaulted  roof,  bein;^  in  fact  one  stone,  wrought 
out  of  the  darkness  of  its  native  quarry,  open  to  the 
sun,  and  pervious  to  the  breeze  through  all  its  re- 
cesses. It  seems  as  though  the  master-spirits  who 
planned  this  work  had  caught  the  sublime  idea  from 
their  own  prolific  tree,  which,  casting  its  boughs  on 
every  side,  takes  fresh  root  at  the  extremity  of  each 
when  it  touches  the  soil,  and  multiplies  itself  into  a 
forest  from  one  stem.  Milton,  from  such  an  archi- 
tectural tree,  represents  our  first  parents,  after  their 
fall,  as  gathering  the  ample  leaves,  "  broad  as  a  tar- 
get," to  twine  into  girdles  : 

The  fig-tree — not  that  khid  for  fruit  renown'd, 
But  such  as  at  this  day  to  Indians  known, 
In  Malabar  or  Deccan,  spreads  her  arms, 
Branching-  so  broad  and  long,  that  in  the  ground 
The  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow 
About  the  mother-tree — a  pillar'd  shade, 
High  over-arch'd,  and  echoing  walks  between . 
There  oft  the  Indian  herdsman,  shunning  heat, 
Shelters  in  cool,  and  tends  his  pasturing  herds, 
At  loop-holes  cut  through  thickest  shade." 


Could  the  minds  that  conceived  and  the  hands 
that  wrought  this  prodigy  of  art  have  been  those  of 
men  in  their  second  childhood, — not  the  second  child- 
hood of  individuals,  but  of  a  people  fallen  into  dotage 
and  decrepitude,  like  their  descendants,  under  the 
double  curse  of  tyranny  and  superstition  ]  No  ;  the 
ancient  Indians  were  men  of  mighty  bone  and  mighty 
intellect,  not  only  according  to  the  evidence  of  these 
unparalleled  relics  of  their  power,  but  according  to 
the  most  authentic  testimony  of  those  who  have  de- 
scribed the  expedition  of  Alexander  the  Great  into 
this  vast  region.  Whatever  were  his  victories,  he 
saw  a  boundary  there  which  he  was  not  permitted 
to  pass ;  and  when  he  left  India  behind  him  unsub- 
dued, he  had  little  reason  to  sigh  for  other  worlds  to 
conquer.  Nor  (which  is  principally  to  our  present 
U 


250  A    RETROSPECT    Of    LITEUATURI:. 

purpose)  M'as  he  less  thwarted  by  the  philosophers 
of  India  than  baffled  by  its  warriors  and  its  climate. 
These  exercised  such  influence  over  the  people,  that 
the  tribes  rose  in  mass  to  repel  the  invader,  or  perish 
on  the  field,  or  amid  the  blazing  ruins  of  their 
strong-holds,  rather  than  submit, — and  thencefor- 
ward live  under  the  ban  of  excommunication  from 
the  society  of  men,  which  the  priests  had  power  to 
decree,  and  all  the  plagues  which  it  was  believed  the 
gods  would  inflict  upon  the  betrayers  of  their  country 
to  a  stranger. 

In  later  ages,  unfortunately,  India  was  subdued, — 
subdued  again  and  again ;  and  for  two  thousand  years 
it  has  been  the  prey  of  foreigners.  At  length,  how- 
ever, in  the  order  of  Providence,  it  has  become  a 
province  of  the  British  empire ;  and,  by  whatever 
means  acquired,  it  may  be  confidently  asserted  that 
our  dominion  there  must  be — I  trust  will  be — main- 
tained by  beneficence.  Resolutely  avoiding  all  po- 
litical allusions,  I  cannot  hesitate  to  say  that  a  better 
day  has  dawned  on  that  land  of  darkness  ;  yet,  before 
the  Hindoo  can  rise  to  the  dignity  of  independent 
man,  a  spell  v/hich  has  paralyzed  his  spirit  for  thou- 
sands of  years  must  be  taken  oft".  The  chain  of  caste 
must  be  broken — that  subtlest  and  strongest  of  chains, 
at  once  invisible  and  indissoluble ;  each  link  being 
perfect  and  insulated,  so  as  to  enclose  within  its  little 
magic  circle  a  distinct  class  of  the  communit}'^,  and 
prevent  the  individuals  for  ever  from  mingling  with 
those  of  any  other  class ;  while  all  the  links  are  so 
implicated  together  as  to  make  all  the  classes  one 
race  of  captives,  dragged,  as  it  were,  in  perpetual 
succession,  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  their  own  Jug- 
gernaut, along  the  broad  road  of  ignorance,  debase, 
ment,  and  superstition.  This  chain  must  be  brokei 
by  the  gradual  association  of  persons  of  varioii? 
castes  in  civil,  military,  commercial,  and  religious 
bands,  wherein  all  acting  together,  and  on  terms  oi 
equality,  those  fetters   which  both  concatenate  and 


A    RETHOSPKCT    OF    LITERATURE.  251 

divide  them  will  be  worn  thinner  and  thinner  by  in- 
cessant and  unregarded  attrition,  till  at  length  they 
fall  off  of  themselves. 

But  it  is  by  schools,  in  which  children  are  promis- 
cuously educated,  whatever  be  their  rank  and  parent- 
age, that  the  prejudices  of  bigotry  and  the  inveteracy 
of  proscription  will  be  most  easily  and  effectually 
abolished.  A  great  point  has  been  gained  within 
the  last  thirty  years,  when  seminaries  in  which  Eu- 
ropean literature  (however  humble  in  form)  is  taught 
were  first  opened,  and  are  now,  in  many  instances, 
well  frequented  by  boys  of  all  castes,  from  the  sons 
of  the  Brahmin  to  those  of  the  Soudhra  :  but  a  still 
greater  step  towards  native  emancipation  was  taken 
by  a  countrywoman  of  our  own,  about  tv.'elve  years 
ago,  who  dared  to  offer  instruction  to  Hindoo  fe- 
males. Their  mothers,  through  a  hundred  genera- 
tions, had  been  held  in  the  bonds  of  ignorance,  and 
if  their  posterity  had  been  left  for  a  hundred  genera- 
tions more  under  the  same  thraldom  and  outlawry, 
the  other  sex  must  have  remained,  by  a  judicial  fa- 
tality, as  they  are,  and  as  they  have  been, — unim- 
provable beings,  from  the  hereditary  disqualification 
of  caste,  which  prevents  a  man  from  ever  being  any 
thing  but  what  his  father  was,  and  requires  him  to 
entail  the  monotonous  curse  upon  all  his  posterity. 
But  now  the  worst  of  castes — the  caste  of  sex — is 
broken  in  India,  by  the  opening  of  schools  for  girls 
in  various  stations.  The  v/ork  has  been  begun  under 
good  auspices,  and  it  will  go  on.  The  great  difficulty 
was  to  take  the  first  step :  this,  a  few  years  ago,  was 
deemed  an  impossibility  ;  the  only  impossibility  now 
is,  to  stop  the  progress  of  motion  once  communi- 
cated, and  never  to  cease  while  the  earth  rolls  in  its 
orbit. 

But  we  must  return  westward. 


252  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

Literature  of  the  Chaldeans^  Babylonians,  <5fC, 

Nations  have  their  infancy,  as  well  as  the  men 
and  women  that  compose  them.  To  a  child  every 
thina:  is  new  and  wonderful,  and  if  one  of  these  little 
curious  observers  could  communicate  its  minute 
history,  for  the  first  three  years,  in  its  own  exquisite 
anomaly  of  words  and  ideas,  there  would  be  the 
prettiest  fairy-tale  that  the  world  ever  saw ;  it  would, 
indeed,  defy  criticism,  but  it  would  delight  beyond 
example  everybody  that  had  once  been  a  baby,  dear 
to  a  mother,  and  who  remembered,  however  imper- 
fectly, those  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  nursery  that 
compose  the  morning  dreams  of  life,  before  one 
awakes  to  its  dull,  and  cold,  and  sad  realities.  In 
like  manner,  the  first  records  of  every  people  abound 
with  marvels  and  prodigies,  with  crude  and  terrible 
traditions,  wild  and  beautiful  reveries,  fabulous  rep- 
resentations of  facts,  or  pure  unmingled  fiction,  with 
which  no  truth  can  amalgamate.  Heroes  and  demi- 
gods, giants  and  genii,  evil  and  good,  are  the  every- 
day actors  of  scenes  in  which  supernatural  achieve- 
ments and  miraculous  changes  are  the  ordinary  inci- 
dents. 

These  observations  are  peculiarly  applicable  to  the 
early  histories  of  the  celebrated  nations  of  antiquity. 
There  scarcely  exists  an  authenticated  fragment  of 
all  the  learning  and  philosophy  of  the  Chaldeans, 
Babylonians,  Assyrians,  Egyptians,  and  Phenicians, 
to  give  posterity,  in  the  present  age,  matter-of-fact 
proof  that  there  were  such  giants  of  literature  in  tlie 
earth  in  those  days  as  we  have  been  taught  to 
believe  from  the  testimony  of  the  more  enlightened 
Greeks,  who,  after  all,  appear  to  have  knoivn  less 
even  than  they  have  told  concerning  these  patriarchal 
people,  and  to  have  recorded  vague  traditions  rather 
han  preserved  genuine  relics  of  historical  records, 
which  had  perished  in  the  bulk  before  their  time 


A    RETR06PEO1     t)F    LITERATURE.  253 

It  is  almost  unaccountable,  if  there  were  such  trea- 
sures of  knowledge,  in  Egypt  especially,  that  the 
philosophers  and  statesmen  of  Greece  who  travelled 
thither  for  improvement  should  have  acknowledged 
so  little.  This  circumstance  naturally  induces  sus- 
picion that  what  they  learned  there  was  either  of 
very  small  value,  or  that  they  were  very  disingenu- 
ous in  not  registering  their  obligations.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  though  there  is  abundant  evidence  that  in 
manual  arts,  as  well  as  in  arms,  these  people  of  the 
east  were  great  in  their  generation,  their  literature 
must  have  been  exceedingly  defective  ;  otherwise 
their  monuments  of  thought,  no  more  than  their 
monuments  of  masonry,  could  have  so  perished  as 
scarcely  to  have  left  a  wreck  behind : 

"  They  had  no  poet,  and  they  died." 

There  is  not  in  existence  a  line  of  verse  by  Chaldean, 
Babylonian,  Assyrian,  Egyptian,  or  Phenician  bard. 
They  could  embalm  bodies,  but  hieroglyphics  them- 
selves have  failed  to  embalm  ideas.  Yet  there  was 
mind,  and  mind  of  high  order;  limited,  indeed,  in 
the  range  of  objects  on  which  it  was  exercised,  but 
expanding  itself  into  immensity  upon  the  few  to- 
wards which  its  energies  were  converged. 

It  is  manifest,  from  the  uniform  character  of  mag- 
nificence stamped  upon  all  the  ruins  of  temples,  pal- 
aces, and  cities,  as  well  as  from  the  more  perfect 
specimens  of  pyramids,  obelisks,  and  sculptures,  yet 
extant  in  the  land  of  Nile,  that  a  number  compara- 
tively small  of  master-spirits  supplied  the  ideas 
which  myriads  of  labourers  were  perpetually  em- 
ployed to  imbody,  and  that  the  learning  of  the  Egyp- 
tians was  nearly,  if  not  wholly,  confined  to  the  priest- 
hood and  the  superior  classes.  Mcses,  indeed,  was 
instructed  in  it,  not  because  he  was  the  son  of  a 
slave,  but  because  he  was  the  adopted  son  of  Pha- 
raoh's daughter.     We  have  Scripture  authority,  too 


254  A    RETKOSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

for  the  fact,  that  long  before  the  Israelites  became 
bondsmen  to  the  Egyptians,  the  Egyptians  had  sold 
themselves  and  their  land  to  their  king  for  bread 
during  a  seven  years'  famine.  However  intellectual 
then  the  rulers  and  hierarchy  may  have  been,  who 
planned  those  amazing  monuments  of  ambition,  the 
hands  which  wrought  such  works  must  have  been 
the  hands  of  slaves, — slaves  held  in  ignorance  as 
well  as  servitude.  Men  free  and  enlightened  never 
could  have  been  made  what  these  evidently  were — 
live  tools  to  hew  rocks  into  squares  and  curves,  and 
pile  the  masses  one  upon  another  by  unimaginable 
dint  of  strength,  and  the  consentaneous  efforts  of 
multitudes,  whose  bones  and  sinews — whose  limbs 
and  lives,  were  always  in  requisition  to  do  or  to 
suffer  what  their  hierophants  or  their  sovereigns 
projected. 

Speculation  on  the  Original  Use  of  Hieroglyphics. 

The  marvellous  relics  of  Memphian  grandeur,  of 
which  new  discoveries  are  made  by  every  successive 
traveller  into  the  desert,  or  up  the  river,  are  melan- 
choly proofs  that  the  vaunted  learning  of  the  Egyp- 
tians, when  it  existed,  was  as  much  locked  up  from 
the  comprehension  of  the  vulgar,  as  it  is  at  this  day 
from  the  curiosity  of  the  learned  in  undecipherable 
hieroglyphics.      Had   instruction  been  as   general 
there  as  it  is  here,  the  key  to  those  hieroglyphics 
could  hardly  have  been  lost  to  posterity.     But  we 
are  told  that  a  key  to  the  hieroglyphics  has  been 
found  ;  and  in  reference  to  alphabetical  hieroglyphics 
this  is  true  ;  but  that  this  was  the  original  character 
Iff  figure-writing  it  is  difficult  to  believe  ;  for  had  it 
/«3en  so,  it  would  probably  have  been  early  abandoned, 
ind  abandoned  aUogether,  when  the  simpler  forms 
l)f  lines  and  curves  were  adopted  to  express  letters. 
Had  hieroglyphics  in  the  first  instance  been  alpha- 
oetical,  and  employed  for  purposes  of  literature,  the 


\    KKTKOSPKCT    l)F    LITICRATURK.  255 

slowness  of  the  process,  and  the  extent  to  which 
documents  so  written  would  spread,  must  have  con- 
fined their  use  to  tabular  and  sepulchral  inscriptions 
for  a  single  copy  of  the  history  of  Egypt,  for  example 
(had  such  a  one  been  compiled),  equal  to  Hume's 
History  of  England,  would  have  required  a  surface 
for  transcription  scarcely  less  than  the  four  sides  of 
the  great  pyramid  of  Ghizza. 

Without,  however,  entering  into  any  inquiry  con- 
cerning the  value  and  extent  of  the  recent  discoveries 
of  the  late  Dr.  Young,  to  whom,  I  believe,  the  honour 
belongs,  and  through  him  to  our  country  belongs,  or 
M.  Champollion,  who  has  most  happily  followed  the 
clew  of  which  the  doctor  found  the  first  loose  end 
for  unwinding;  without  entering  into  any  inquiry 
into  these  exceedingly  curious  but  abstruse  and  com- 
plicated questions,  the  (ew  following  remarks  are 
intended  to  refer  solely  to  the  antecedent  use  of  hie- 
roglyphics in  Egypt,  in  the  same  manner  as  they 
have  been  or  are  used  elsewhere,  both  in  ancient 
and  in  modern  times ;  namely,  as  symbols,  not  of 
letters,  nor  of  ivords,  but  of  things ;  each  of  which, 
though  it  had  a  general  meaning,,  from  which  it 
probably  v/cys  never  dissociated,  yet  in  its  particular 
application  might  be  employed  as  a  pure  mnemonic, 
and  associated  with  any  special  idea  of  that  class  to 
which  it  belonged. 

Hieroglyphics,  in  this  respect,  differed  essentially 
from  the  system  of  modern  mnemonics,  wherein  the 
association  of  symbols  v/ith  things  to  be  remembered 
by  them  is  not  arbitrary,  and  therefore  not  capable  of 
being  harmoniously  adapted,  but  fixed,  and  neces- 
sarily incongruous ;  so  that  of  whatever  utility  they 
may  be  in  forming  a  technical  memory,  the  habit  of 
collocating,  and  the  familiarity  of  dwelling  upon,  such 
heterogeneous  materials  in  the  lumber-room  of  the 
mind,  can  have  no  better  effect  upon  the  judgment 
and  the  taste  than  to  pervert  the  one  and  corrupt  the 
other.      For  example  : — a  lecturer  on    mnemonics. 


256  A    RETROSPECT    UF    LITERATURE. 

in  my  hearing-,  proposed  something  (I  forget  what)  to 
be  remembered  in  connexion  with  the  miraculous 
conversion  of  St.  Paul.  To  accomplish  this,  he  had 
occasion  for  the  letters  (or  the  consonants)  com- 
posing the  word  smilingly,  while,  by  an  unlucky 
coincidence,  the  symbol  to  be  employed  was  Venus. 
"  Well,  then,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  having 
ascertained  these  two  points, — the  word  and  the 
symbol, — you  need  only  imagine  that  when  Saul  of 
Tarsus  was  struck  down  to  the  ground  by  the  light 
from  heaven,  the  goddess  of  beauty,  in  her  chariot, 
drawn  by  doves  through  the  air,  was  passing  by  at 
that  moment,  and  looked  down  smilingly  upon  him." 
To  say  nothing  of  the  impiety,  the  absurdity  of  such 
an  association  of  images  and  ideas  is  so  revolting 
that  the  mind  which  could  endure  it  must  be  eithei 
originally  insensible  to  all  that  is  delicate,  beautiful, 
and  true  in  poetry,  painting,  and  reality,  or  it  would 
soon  be  rendered  so. 

Let  us  now  see  how  differently,  yet  how  grace- 
fully and  appropriately,  genuine  hieroglyphics  may 
be  combined  with  ideas  and  images  to  be  remembered 
by  them.  In  the  year  1734,  three  red  Indian  chiefs 
of  the  Creek  nation  were  admitted  to  the  honour  of 
a  formal  audience,  at  Whitehall,  v/ith  his  majesty 
George  II.  On  being  introduced  into  the  presence, 
Tomo  Cachi,  the  principal  of  his  tribe,  thus  addressed 
the  king,  presenting  at  the  same  time  the  symbols  to 
which  he  alluded: — "This  day  I  see  the  majesty  of 
your  face,  the  greatness  of  your  house,  and  the  num- 
ber of  your  people."  Then  stating  the  object  of  their 
visit  to  be  "  the  good  of  the  children  of  all  the  nations 
of  the  upper  and  lower  Creeks,  that  they  might  be 
ijistructed  in  the  arts  of  the  English  people,"  he 
add<-Yl,  "  These  are  feathers  of  the  eagle,  the  swiftest 
of  birds,  and  which  flieth  all  round  our  nations. 
These  feathers  are  the  sign  of  peace  in  our  land,  and 
have  been  carried  there  from  villaiie  to  village,  and 
we  have  brou£-ht  them  over  to  leave  with  vou,  0 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  257 

great  king!  as  a  sign  of  everlasting  peace."  Now 
had  these  symbols  been  delivered  to  the  chief  of 
another  tribe  of  Tomo  Cachi's  own  countrymen,  the5 
would  have  been  preserved  in  memorial  of  the  pa* 
cific  interview ;  and  the  very  luords  of  the  speech  that 
accompanied  them  would  have  been  so  accurately 
remembered,  that  on  every  public  occasion,  when 
reference  was  made  to  the  particular  event,  the 
feathers  would  have  been  produced,  and  that  speech 
would  have  been  repeated,  the  former  being  made 
mnemonics  of  the  latter,  not  by  a  settled  but  by  an 
arbitrary  association ;  for  the  same  feathers  might  have 
been  the  recording  emblems  of  any  other  pacific 
treaty,  and  combined  in  remembrance  with  any  other 
form  of  words  uttered  at  the  ratification  of  it. 

Among  these  Indian  tribes,  every  thing  of  import- 
ance transacted  in  solemn  council  between  them- 
selves or  their  white  neighbours  is  confirmed  and 
commemorated  by  the  delivery  or  interchange  of 
symbols,  which  for  the  most  part  are  strings  or  belts 
of  wampum.  A  string  consists  of  a  series  of  square 
flat  pieces  of  muscle-shell,  fastened  breadth-wise  on 
a  cord  or  wire  :  a  belt  is  composed  of  several  of  these 
strings  joined  side  by  side,  and  from  three  to  four 
inches  wide.  The  value  of  each  is  computed  by  the 
number  of  fathoms  contained  in  the  whole  length 
when  drawn  out.  Upon  the  delivery  of  a  string,  the 
speech  which  accompanies  it  may  be  verbose  enough, 
because  it  is  sufficient  if  the  general  meaning  be 
recollected — but  when  a  belt  is  given,  the  words  must 
be  few  and  weighty,  and  every  one  of  them  remembered. 
Neither  the  colour  nor  the  size  of  the  plates  which 
constitute  the  wampum  is  indifferent ;  the  black  and 
blue  are  used  when  the  occasion  is  one  of  doubt, 
rebuke,  or  contention ;  the  white  at  amicable  meet- 
ings :  but  when  defiance  is  held  forth,  the  pieces  of 
shell  are  artificially  marked  with  red,  the  colour  of 
blood,  having  in  the  middle  the  figure  of  a  tomahawk. 
The  Iiidian  women  are  verv  ingenious  in  the  inveu 


258  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

tion  of  significant  devices,  and  expert  in  the  art  of 
weaving  the  same  into  the  texture  of  these  hiero- 
glyphic belts;  every  one  of  which  is  individually 
distinguished  by  some  special  mark  whereby  the 
association  of  the  words  delivered  with  ii  may  be 
revived,  even  though  all  the  rest  of  the  emblems 
upon  it  v/ere  similar  to  those  on  other  belts,  delivered 
with  other  words  at  the  same  time. 

Such  strings  and  belts  are  also  documents  by  which 
the  Indians  register  the  events  of  their  desultory 
history,  and  perpetuate  the  only  literature  which  they 
have ;  namely,  the  verbal  terms  in  which  treaties, 
agreements,  and  pledges  were  made  between  tribes, 
and  families,  and  private  persons.  Their  national 
records  of  this  kind  are  carefully  deposited  in  chests, 
which  are  public  property.  On  certain  festival  days 
all  these  are  brought  forth  to  refresh  the  memory  of 
the  aged,  and  that  the  young  may  be  instructed  in 
the  interpretation  of  them.  On  such  occasions  a 
large  circle  is  formed  by  the  initiated  and  their  schol- 
ars, all  sitting  on  the  earth,  under  the  shadow  of 
forest  trees,  around  the  chest ;  from  which  only  one 
length  of  wampum  is  taken  out  at  a  time,  and  held  up 
to  inspection,  while  some  chieftain  or  orator  (learned 
in  what  actually  deserves  a  better  name  than  legend- 
ary or  traditional  lore)  not  merely  explains  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  accepted,  but 
rehearses  word  for  word  the  very  speech  delivered 
with  it.  The  string  or  belt  is  then  handed  round  the 
whole  assembly,  each  marking  the  length,  breadth- 
colours,  and  devices  upon  it,  and  in  his  own  mind 
connecting  with  these  the  sentences  of  which  it  is 
the  particular  memorial.  When  all  have  examined 
it,  and  satisfied  themselves,  this  is  laid  by,  and 
'another  and  another  produced,  till  the  whole  seiies 
has  been  gone  through  in  like  manner.  In  illustra- 
tion of  the  Indian  use  of  such  hieroglyphics,  tlic 
following  singular  fact  is  worth  attention  : — 

The  wars  between  the  Delawares  and   Iroquois 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  259 

had  been  violent,  and  of  ancient  standing-.  According 
to  their  own  accounts,  the  former  were  always  too 
powerful  for  the  latter.  The  Iroquois,  fearful  of 
extermination,  about  a  century  ago,  sent  a  message 
to  the  Delawares,  saying, — "  It  is  not  profitable  for 
all  the  Indian  nations  to  be  at  war  with  one  another, 
for  by  this  the  whole  race  must  be  destroyed.  We 
have  thought  of  a  plan  by  which  all  may  be  preserved. 
One  tribe  shall  be  the  woman.  We  will  place  her 
in  the  midst,  and  the  others  who  are  wont  to  quarrel 
shall  be  the  man  and  live  round  about  her.  No  one 
of  these  shall  offend  the  woman.  If  any  should  act 
so  basely,  the  rest  will  immediately  say, — '  Why  do 
you  strike  the  woman]'  then  they  shall  all  fall  upon 
him  who  has  hurt  her,  and  chastise  him.  The  woman 
herself  shall  not  go  to  war  with  anybody,  but  shall 
be  at  peace  with  all,  and  keep  peace  among  them. 
Therefore,  if  the  men  that  surround  her  fall  out,  and 
beat  each  other,  the  woman  shall  run  between  them, 
and  say, — '  Ye  men,  what  are  ye  about  1  Why  do 
you  wound  and  kill  each  other  T  Your  wives  and 
your  children  must  perish  if  you  do  this.'  Then  the 
angry  men  shall  hearken  to  the  woman,  and  obey 
her  voice."  The  Delawares  acknowledge,  that  not 
being  aware  of  the  subtlety  of  their  antagonists, 
their  tribe  consented  to  be  the  woman.  The  Iro- 
quois accordingly  appointed  a  great  feast,  and  invited 
all  the  Indian  nation  to  attend  it.  On  this  occasion 
their  chief  orator  addressed  the  representative  of 
their  dupes  thus : — "  We  have  appointed  you,  the 
Delaware  tribe,  to  be  the  woman  among  the  Indian 
people.  We  therefore  clothe  you  in  a  v/oman's 
long  garment  reaching  to  the  ground,  and  adorn  you 
with  earrings.  We  hang  a  calabash  filled  with  oil, 
and  another  filled  with  medicines,  upon  your  arm : 
with  the  oil  you  shall  cleanse  the  ears  of  the  tribes, 
that  they  may  listen  only  to  good  words ;  and  with 
the  medicines  you  shall  heal  those  who  are  walking 
in  foolish  ways,  that  they  may  return  to  their  senses. 


260  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

and  incline  their  hearts  to  peace.  We  deliver  inta 
your  hands  a  plant  of  Indian  corn,  and  a  hoe,  thai 
as  the  woman,  you  may  apply  yourself  to  agricultum 
and  labours  at  home." — Each  of  these  conditions  of 
the  covenant  was  confirmed  by  the  delivery  of  a  bel 
of  wampum,  significant  of  its  particular  provisions. 
For  many  years  afterward  these  were  faithfully  kept 
in  the  national  chest,  and  from  time  to  time  brought 
out,  when  the  identical  speeches  delivered  with  them 
were  repeated  in  the  ears  of  the  people. 

To  return  to  the  original  use  of  hieroglyphics 
among  the  ancients, — for  this  mode  of  registering 
thoughts  was  not  confined  to  the  Egyptians, — I  do 
humbly  conceive  that  it  was  precisely  the  same  in 
principle,  though  far  more  comprehensive  than  the 
use  of  the  wampum  symbols  among  the  red  Indians, 
— namely,  that  it  was  a  system  of  mnemonics,  not 
fixed  but  optional,  and  capable  of  indefinite  applica- 
tion. It  is  generally  presumed  that  each  figure  had 
a  meaning  so  determined,  that  those  who  were  pos- 
sessed of  the  key,  might  unlock  the  mystery  of  every 
combination  on  systematic  principles  that  could  be 
presented  to  him.  Whether  this  process  were  slow 
or  prompt,  difficult  or  easy,  is  not  the  question :  the 
practicability  of  it  may  reasonably  be  doubted  on  this 
plain  ground, — the  symbols  which  compose  hiero- 
glyphics are  so  few,  that,  in  the  very  nature  of  things, 
the  ideas  which  they  could  clearly  express  must  be 
few  in  proportion :  and  though  their  combinations 
might  be  as  infinitely  diversified  as  the  combinations 
of  alphabetical  signs,  yet,  as  each  could  have  but  one 
Sxed  meaning,  which  it  would  always  express,  the 
range  of  ideas  in  which  it  might  be  introduced  must 
be  exceedingly  narrow,  and  nearly  all  of  the  same 
class. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  letters  of  the  alphabet 
having  no  meaning  at  all  when  alone,  but  only  in 
combination  of  syllables,  which  singly  or  concate- 
nated form  words,  it  follows,  that  whatever  words 


A    RETROSPECT     OF    LITERATURE.  261 

can  make  intelligible  to  the  ear,  literal  writing-  cah 
make  intelligible  to  the  eye.  To  this  it  may  be  re- 
plied, that  if  the  images  in  figure-writing  were  few, 
yet  each  represented  a  whole  class  of  meanings,  of 
which  it  was  the  radiating  point,  or  the  root,  from 
which  not  merely  a  tree,  but  a  forest  of  thoughts, 
congenial  to  one  another,  branched  forth :  in  short, 
that  as  the  Hebrew  language  is  a  language  of  hie- 
roglyphics, which  must  be  interpreted  by  tracing 
the  various  shapes  of  signification  which  the  same 
metaphors  assume,  according  to  the  exigency  of 
their  respective  contexts,  so  a  language  of  figures  to 
the  eye  may  be  made  to  convey  as  many  abstract 
ideas  as  those  who  invent  or  employ  it  may  choose. 
This  is  perfectly  practicable  upon  the  principle  by 
which  Indian  hieroglyphics  are  applied  to  every 
desirable  purpose  of  reminiscence  only.  It  may 
not,  indeed,  be  impossible  to  construct  a  system 
of  hieroglyphics  in  which  the  meaning,  and  con- 
sequently the  application,  of  every  radical  should 
be  fixed,  and  yet  so  exuberant  in  diversified  scions, 
as  to  express  whatever  the  human  mind  can  con- 
ceive :  this  may  not  be  impossible  to  construct  in 
theory,  but  to  learn  and  employ  such  a  language 
to  any  considerable  extent  would  be  beyond  the 
power  of  a  finite  capacity.  The  Chinese,  of  which 
every  mark  or  logograph  resembles  a  lock  of  many 
wards,  would  present  reading-made-easy  lessons  for 
an  infant  school,  in  comparison  with  such  pages  of 
Sphynx's  riddles. 

There  are  two  perfect  hieroglyphics  on  record, 
with  the  authorized  interpretation  of  each;  and  it  is 
pretty  evident  from  these  that  the  original  use  of 
hieroglyphics,  before  letters  were  invented,  and  liie- 
roglyphics  themselves  were  converted  into  letters, 
was  much  the  same  among  the  ancients  as  it  is  at  this 
day  among  the  American  Indians.  An  inscription 
over  the  temple  of  Minerva,  at  Sais,  presented  to  the 
spectator  five    images — an   infant,   an  old   man,  a 


262  A    liKTROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

hawk,  a  fish,  a  river-horse.  The  general  meaning 
of  the  first  two  is  sufficiently  obvious ;  the  hawk 
was  the  emblem  of  Deity,  the  fish  v/as  an  abomina- 
tion to  the  Egyptians,  and  the  hippopotamus  was 
equally  abhorred  on  account  of  its  grossness.  We 
are  told,  then,  that  the  tablet  indicated  this: — 
'Young  and  old,  know  that  God  hates  impurity." 

Now,  though  these  very  figures,  without  violating 
the  general  sense  of  any  one  of  them,  might  suggest 
at  least  as  many  different  readings  as  the  most  con 
troverted  passage  in  any  ancient  author, — yet,  tak- 
ing it  for  granted  that  the  above  was  the  precise 
lesson  intended  to  be  conveyed,  how  was  it  taught  • 
Undoubtedly  by  a  set  form  of  words,  to  which  the 
figures  were  adapted;  and  presuming  that  literal 
writing  was  not  then  invented,  we  conclude  that 
the  figures  were  employed,  and  placed  in  a  conspic- 
uous situation,  to  remind  the  spectators  of  the  senti- 
ment with  which  they  were  associated,  and  which 
had  been  publicly  explained  to  everybody  from  the 
time  when  the  tablet  was  first  exhibited.  Had  any 
other  sentiment,  at  the  utmost  variance  with  this, 
been  chosen  to  be  signified  by  these  emblems,  the 
emblems  would  have  reminded  those  who  looked 
upon  them  of  that  sentiment,  and  that  only ;  no 
scheme  of  hieroglyphics,  however  comparatively 
perfect,  being  capable  of  so  conveying  abstract  ideas 
by  visible  images  as  to  enable  every  adept  in  the 
science  to  interpret  them  in  the  same  form  of 
words  :  and  unless  this  might  be  done  as  accurately 
as  by  letters,  there  could  be  little  assurance  that  any 
interpretation  was  the  true  one, — a  circumstance 
which  would  go  far  to  invalidate  all  historical  re- 
cords (except  names  and  dates,  thereby  reducing 
history  to  mere  chronology),  for  few  matters  of  fact 
could  be  xmeqidvocally  represented. 

For  example,  John  struck  William.  Here  the 
persons  are  the  figures  of  the  hieroglyphic,  and  tlie 
verb  describes  the  action  which  must  be  manifest 


A    RETIl()yPK.(  I     OF    litkuaturf;.  ZCui 

from  their  attitudes.  Human  ingenuity  may  be  de- 
fied to  express  the  precise  sense  of  that  one  word 
'  struck."  You  may  represent  a  man  striking  an- 
other, but  you  can  only  represent  the  atlempt  to 
strike  ;  the  finished  act  cannot  be  shown,  for  his  arm 
is  in  the  air ;  it  is  only  on  the  way  to  effect  its  pur- 
pose ;  but  the  person  in  danger  from  it  is  on  his 
gaard,  and  he  may  anticipate  the  blow,  or  shrink 
from  it.  If  you  represent  the  fist  of  the  assailant's 
hand  upon  the  head  at  which  it  was  aimed,  you  can- 
not make  it  plain  that  it  was  violently  laid  there  ;  of 
course  the  spectator  cannot  be  assured  that  John 
struck  William,  notwithstanding  the  ferocious  and 
menacing  aspect  of  the  former  ;  for  braggarts  some- 
times double  their  fists,  and  -push  when  they  dare 
not  strike.  Again,  if  to  indicate  the  past  tense,  you 
represent  William  fallen  under  the  infliction,  there 
will  be  no  direct  evidence  that  he  was  knocked  down ; 
he  may  have  slipped,  or  thrown  himself  upon  the 
ground  to  avoid  the  stroke.  If  hieroglyphics,  even 
though  their  practitioners  were  painters  equal  to 
Apelles  or  Timanthes,  be  so  inadequate  to  exhibit 
actions  by  imagery,  how  nmch  more  defective  must 
they  be  to  express  abstract  ideas,  which  at  best 
could  only  be  doubtful  deductions  from  the  repre- 
sentations of  images  and  actions  in  themselves 
equivocal ! 

The  other  instance  of  a  hieroglyphic  recorded 
and  interpreted,  to  which  allusion  has  been  made,  is 
not  a  pictured  series,  but  the  things  themselves, 
which  were  employed  as  symbols  to  communicate 
a  message  of  defiance.  When  Darius  Hystaspes 
had  long  been  carrying  on  a  fruitless  war  against  the 
Scythians,  the  enemy  sent  him  a  present,  consisting 
oi  a  bird,  a  mouse,  a  frog,  and  a  bundle  of  arrows ; 
intimating  thereby  that  till  the  Persians  could  fly 
through  the  air  like  birds,  live  in  the  earth  like  field- 
aiice,  or  under  the  water  like  frogs,  they  need  not 
flope  to  escape  the  Scythian  arrows.     Is  it  not  plain 


264  A    Rl.TROSPECT    OF     I-ITKKATURE. 

that  a  hundred  different  messages  might  have  been 
transmitted  with  the  very  same  emblems  to  a  hun- 
dred different  persons,  each  of  v/hich  could  only  be 
understood  by  the  receivers  according  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  peculiar  situation  in  respect  to 
the  givers ;  but  not  even  then  to  be  understood  un- 
less a  verbal  interpretation  accompanied  them,  of 
which  the  emblems  were  to  be  neither  more  noi 
less  than  memorials  1 

Mexican  picture-language  and  Peruvian  knots 
might  be  produced  in  further  proof  of  this  conjec- 
ture, for  1  presume  not  to  offer  it  as  more  than  con- 
jecture, that  ancient  hieroglyphics  were  not  origin- 
ally the  adaptation  of  figures  either  to  letters  or 
words,  but  the  representation  solely  of  things  which, 
by  association,  might  be  made  mnemonical  signs  of 
any  arbitrary  collocation  of  words,  generally  express- 
ing ideas  of  that  class  to  which,  by  convention,  the 
figures  themselves  belonged.  I  will  offer  only  one 
test  of  an  authentic  verbal  document,  probably  com- 
posed before  the  invention  of  alphabetical  writing, 
by  which  this  theory  may  be  put  to  the  proof. 

In  my  last  paper  I  alhided  to  the  blessings  of 
dying  Jacob  upon  his  children,  and  observed  that  the 
whole  might  be  converted  into  a  table  of  hiero- 
glyphics. Every  distinct  benediction  or  prophecy, 
referring  to  each  of  his  sons  in  succession,  is  marked 
by  some  strikingly  appropriate  figure  ;  and,  as  the 
very  structure  of  the  sentences,  even  in  our  English 
translation,  shows  that  the  original  composition  vvas 
verse,  and,  consequently,  a  set  form  of  words,  the 
imagery  of  each  clause  would  very  naturally,  and 
very  obviously  too,  constitute  the  hieroglyphics  of 
the  particular  sentiment  associated  with  it,  and  not 
of  that  sentiment  vaguely,  but  in  the  exact  terms  of 
the  poetic  diction  in  which  it  had  been  uttered. 
Tjike  the  blessing  on  .Tudah,  quoted  in  our  last  paper : 
*'  Judah,  thou  art  he  whom  thy  brethren  shall  praise ; 
thy  hand  shall  be  in  the  neck  of  thine  enemies  ;  thy 


A    RllTROSFKCT    OF    LITliUATURE.  2(i5 

father's  children  shall  bow  down  before  thee.  Judah 
is  a  lion's  whelp:  from  the  prey,  my  son,  thou  art 
gone  up :  he  stooped  down,  he  couched  as  a  lion, 
and  as  an  old  lion  ;  who  shall  rouse  him  up  1  The 
sceptre  shall  not  depart  from  Judah,  nor  a  lawgiver 
from  between  his  feet,  until  Shiloh  come  :  and  unto 
him  shall  the  gatherin^j  of  the  people  be.  Binding 
his  foal  unto  the  vine,  and  his  ass's  cplt  unto  the 
choice  vine,  he  washed  his  garments  in  wine,  and 
his  clothes  in  the  blood  of  grapes :  his  eye  shall  be 
red  with  wine,  and  his  teeth  white  with  milk." 

Here  is  a  hieroglyphic  table  in  three  compart- 
ments :  in  the  Jirst,  under  the  figures  of  a  lion's 
whelp,  a  full-grown  lion,  and  a  lioness  couched 
among  her  young,  the  power  and  fierceness  of  a 
miglity  conqueror  are  shadowed  forth  ;  in  the  second 
appears  a  sceptre,  the  sign  of  sovereignty,  to  be  con- 
tinued till  a  greater  than  Judah  shall  come  ;  in  the 
third,  the  vintage-scene  evidently  exhibits  the  future 
prosperity  and  happiness  of  his  descendants  in  the 
land  promised  to  their  fathers.  Now,  might  not 
these  symbols  be  engraven  and  kept  in  the  families 
of  the  sons  of  Jacob,  not  merely  in  general  remem- 
brance of  the  blessings  appropriated  to  each  of  their 
tribes,  but  to  remind  them  and  their  posterity  of  the 
literal  language  in  which  the  prophecies  were  given, 
and  on  the  presei'vation  of  the  words  of  which  depended 
the  only  assurance  that  the  substantial  truth  had  noi 
been  perverted  by  loose  oral  tradition  \ 

We  are  told  that  the  Egyptian  priests  inscribed 
upon  pillars,  and  obelisks,  and  on  the  v/alls  of  their 
temples,  all  the  lessons  of  wisdom  and  records  of 
past  events,  which  they  taught  to  the  privileged  few 
who  were  their  scholars.  If  the  speculations  here 
advanced  have  their  foundation  in  truth,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  whatever  was  thus  taught  by  hieroglyphics 
was  first  composed  in  fixed  forms  of  words  ;  and 
that  the  mode  of  teaching  from  these  was  not  by 
means  of  a  key  which  unlocked  the  secrets  of  ii 
X 


28(»  A     RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

universal  language,  but  by  repeating  to  the  learners 
premeditated  sentences  like  the  Indian  speeches,  and 
associating  with  each  of  these,  as  it  was  impressed 
upon  the  memory,  the  figure  or  figures  correspond- 
ing with  it  in  the  hieroglyphic  series  of  the  whole  ; 
then,  though  thousands  might  be  well  versed  in  the 
genei-al  signification  of  symbols  which  were  in  general 
use,  none  could  understand  any  particular  arrange- 
ment of  them  except  those  who  were  specially  in- 
structed in  the  same.  Manj'-  might  comprehend  the 
scope  of  each  of  the  blessings  .ndicated  in  a  hiero- 
glyphic series  made  from  Jacob's  farewell  words, 
but  none,  by  any  imaginable  process,  except  pre- 
vious instruction,  could  interpret  the  figures  into  the 
words.* 

Ancient  Greek  Literature. 

Leaving  the  interminable,  perhaps  we  ought  rather 
to  say  the  inaccessible,  maze  of  hieroglyphics,  though 
"  long  detained  in  that  obscure  sojourn,"  we  turn  to 
the  daylight  scenes  and  pure  realities  of  Greece. 

*  The  following  is  a  very  significant  specimen  of  an  Indian  hiero. 
glyphtc  siill  used:  it  has  frequently  been  mentioned  in  ridicule,  biU  it 
is  not  vvithout  a  grave  signification  : — 

"  A  serpent  in  a  circle,  representing  eternity. — A  tortoise  resting  on 
the  serpent,  being  the  symbol  of  stnmgth,  or  the  upholding  power. — Four 
elephants  standing  on  the  back  of  the  tortoise,  emblems  of  Wisdom  sus- 
taining the  earth. — On  the  top  of  all  the  triangle,  the  symbol  of  Yoni, 
and  the  Creation." 

In  Oahu,  one  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,  the  tax-gatherers,  though  they 
can  neither  road  nor  write,  keep  verj'  accurate  accounts  of  all  the  articles 
of  all  kinds  collected  from  the  inhabitants  throughout  the  island.  This 
is  done  principally  by  one  man,  and  the  register  is  nothing  more  than  a 
line  of  cordage  from  four  to  five  hundred  fathoms  in  length.  Distinct 
portions  of  this  rope  are  allotted  to  the  various  districts,  which  are  known 
one  from  another  by  their  relative  locality  in  succession,  beginning  and 
ending  at  one  point  on  the  coast,  and  also  by  knots,  loops,  and  tufts  of 
different  sliapofl,  sizes,  and  olours.  Each  tax-payer  in  each  district  has 
liis  ])lace  and  designation  in  this  string,  and  the  number  of  dollars,  pigs, 
d02s,  pieces  of  sandaJ- wood,  the  quantity  of  taro-root,  and  other  coirimo- 
dities  at  which  he  i.s  rated  is  exactly  defmed  by  marks  most  ingeniously 
diversified,— which,  though  fonned  upon  general  i)rinciples,  can  only  b« 
tuidersiood  in  tlieir  application  by  the  resident  collector,  who  has  in  hia 
mind  the  topographical  picture  of  the  island,  and  all  its  districts. 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  267 

To  arrive  at  these,  however,  we  must  pass  over  all 
the  fables  of  her  first  ages,  borrowed  probably  from 
Egyptian  mythology,  and  introduced  by  Cecrops,  the 
founder  of  Athens,  and  perhaps  never  understood  by 
the  Greeks :  we  must  likewise  leave  behind  the 
generation  of  heroes  which  followed  that  of  gods, 
including  among  the  former  the  earliest  names  in 
profane  literature, — Cadmus,  who  is  said  to  have 
imported  letters  from  Phenicia ;  also  the  poets  Or- 
pheus, Musa^us,  Linus,  Amphion,  and  others,  of 
whom  miracles  of  song  are  recorded,  which  may 
indeed  be  allegorical  representations  of  the  influence 
of  the  fine  arts,  especially  poesy  (the  language  of 
superior  beings  to  a  barbarous  people),  in  civilizing 
manners  and  transforming  characters,  by  awakening, 
developing,  and  expanding  the  intellectual  powers 
of  man. 

Homer  himself  lived  so  much  within  the  undeter- 
minable limit  of  that  doubtful  era,  when,  though  it 
was  no  longer  night,  it  was  not  yet  day  in  Greece, 
that  the  only  date  which  can  be  assigned  to  him  is 
not  that  of  his  actual  existence,  but  that  of  his 
resurrection  from  an  obscurity  which  had  gathered 
round  his  tomb,  and  w^ould  probably  for  ever  have 
concealed  it  and  all  but  his  name  from  posterity. 
Of  course  the  allusion  is  to  that  act  of  Pisistratus 
by  which  he  almost  redeemed  the  royal  title  of 
tyrant  from  the  obloquy  which  his  usurpation  had 
entailed  upon  it,  when,  according  to  the  only  history 
of  the  period — unwritten  tradition,  he  collected  the 
scattered  songs  of  Homer,  and  united  the  loose 
Lnks  into  that  perfect  and  inimitable  chain  in  which 
they  have  been  delivered  down  to  us,  most  resem- 
bling, it  may  be  said,  "  the  golden  everlasting  chain* 
celebrated  in  the  Iliad,  wherewith  the  father  of  the 
gods  bound  the  earth  to  his  throne  ;  for  in  like  man- 
ner hath  this  father  of  poets,  from  his  "  highest 
heaven  of  invention,"  indissohibly  bound  the  world 
to  the  sovereignty  of  his  genius. 


268      A  RETROSPECT  OF  LTTERATrRK. 

Whether  the  poems  of  Homer,  like  the  "  Orlaiiilo 
Tnnamorato"  of  Boinrdo,  as  recom posed  by  Berni. 
or  our  national  ballad  of  "  Chevy  Chase,"  as  altered 
and  improved  by  successive  hands,  were  rude  but 
noble  lays,  refined  gradually  or  at  once  ,  or  whether 
they  were  originally  composed  in  the  form  which 
two  thousand  five  hundred  years  have  not  been  able 
to  amend  or  deteriorate — this  is  a  question  which  it 
were  vain  to  argue  upon  here  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that 
Greek  literature,  in  poetry  at  least,  had  reached  a 
standard  which  has  never  been  surpassed  in  the  age 
of  Pisistratus,  who,  as  the  prototype  of  Pericles 
(his  imitator  both  in  the  career  of  learning  and  of 
ambition),  if  he  deprived  his  countrymen  of  their 
birthright,  conferred  on  them  the  only  earthly  ad- 
vantage that  can  in  any  degree  be  regarded  as  an 
honourable  compensation  for  the  loss  of  liberty  :  he 
bestowed  upon  them,  by  his  munificent  patronage, 
the  motives  and  the  means  of  cultivating  those  ele- 
gant arts  and  useful  sciences  which,  more  than  all 
that  fortune  can  give,  or  valour  v.^in  besides,  adorn, 
enrich,  and  dignify  any  people  among  whom  they 
find  a  sanctuary  and  a  home.  The  glory  of  Pisis- 
tratus in  the  history  of  literature  is  only  second  to 
that  of  Homer;  for  having  gathered  the  poems  of 
the  latter  into  the  most  precious  volume  (the  Sacred 
Scriptures  excepted)  which  time  has  spared  in  the 
devastations  of  his  march,  and  spared  so  long  that 
even  he  cannot  destroy  it,  except  in  that  ruin  in 
whRjh  he  shall  involve  himself  and  all  things  under 
the  sun. 

From  the  era  when  the  works  of  Homer  were  thus 
revived,  and  not  they  only  but  all  the  treasures  of 
past  and  contemporary  genius,  in  the  library  which 
Pisistratus  first  established,  were  thrown  open  to  all 
who  had  leisure,  ability,  and  disposition  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  same — from  that  auspicious  era, 
not  only  Athens,  but  all  the  little  commonwealths  of 
Greece,  Sparta  excepted,  rose  so  rapidly  in  learning 


A    RKTROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  269 

and  refinement,  that  thenceforward,  till  tlie  sub- 
version of  their  indepenrlenee  by  Philip  of  Macedon, 
has;  been  Justly  styled  the  g-oiden  era  of  that  illus- 
trious land,  whose  heroes,  philosophers,  poets,  his- 
torians, orators,  nnd  adepts  in  all  that  exalts  and 
bcHutifies  man  in  society  remain  to  this  day,  and 
must  ever  remain,  the  models  and  exemplars  to  the 
jrreat  and  the  ylorious  of  every  kindred  and  climate. 
Had  they  correspondingly  excelled  in  virtue,  how 
had  they  blessed  their  own  and  every  other  ai^e  in 
which  their  honour,  name,  and  praise  should  have 
been  known  ! 

But  it  is  their  literature,  not  their  morals,  with 
which  we  have  at  present  to  do,  and  it  is  but  jusiice 
to  say  distinctly,  after  intimating  that  much  was 
imiss,  there  were  among  them  many  not  only  of 
the  wisest  but  of  the  best  men,  to  whom  no  light 
bui  that  of  nature  had  been  given,  and  whose  nearest 
approach  to  the  discovery  of  eternal  truth  was  the 
consecration  of  an  altar  "to  the  unknown  God." 
Within  the  period  above  alluded  to,  but  especially 
after  the  battles  of  Marathon  and  Salamis  had  raised 
the  reputation  of  their  arms  to  an  equality  with  the 
eminence  of  their  arts,  the  greatest  number  of  their 
greatest  men  appeared,  and  flourished  in  such  thick 
contiguity  and  rapid  succession,  that  the  mere  relics, 
the  floating  fragnrents  of  the  wreck  of  literatm-e 
which  have  been  preserved,  because  they  could  not 
sink  in  the  dead  sea  of  oblivion,  that  ingulfed  and 
stagnated  over  the  buried  riches  of  a  hundred  argo- 
biep, — the  mere  relics  and  wreck  of  literature  pre- 
served to  us,  from  that  brief  period,  are  of  as  much 
value  as  all  that  has  been  inherited,  or  recovered 
rather,  from  the  ages  before  that  died — may  I  say 
it  ^  wnlhout  loill, — and  the  ages  after,  that  had  com- 
paratively little  wealth  either  to  live  upon  or  to  be- 
queath, though  the  country,  under  various  forms  of 
republican  government,  and  as  a  province  of  Rome. 


270  A    RETROSPECT    OF     LITERATURE. 

continued  to  be  the  seat  of  arts,  science,  and  phi 
losophy  through  many  succeeding  centuries. 

Athens. 

It  was  during  that  brief  but  iUustrious  period  that 
Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece — the  loveliest  feature  in 
a  face  and  form  of  which  every  line  and  limb  was 
moulded  as  exquisitely  as  her  own  ideal  image  of 
beauty, — it  was  then  that  Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece, 
shone  forth  in  all  its  lustre,  and,  when  it  closed,  left 
such  a  remembrance  of  its  light  behind,  as  continued 
to  cheer  the  paths  both  of  the  Muses  and  the  Graces 
through  the  comparative  darkness  of  succeeding 
times.  Athens  bj/  day  presented  the  brilliant  and 
vivacious  spectacle  of  a  thronging  population  in  the 
forum,  the  portico,  the  grove,  the  theatres,  the  tem- 
ples, the  palaces  of  her  heroic  yet  voluptuous  city, 
— where  the  gayest,  the  proudest,  the  most  intellect- 
ual people  that  ever  dwelt  in  such  close  society, 
were  eagerly  pursuing  glory  under  every  form  of 
labour,  letters,  arts,  and  arms, — or  pleasure,  in  all  its 
diversities  of  pomp,  licentiousness,  and  superstition 
— superstition  so  elegantly  disguised  (and  yet  so 
profligate)  as  to  impose  on  the  imaginations,  if  not 
to  captivate  the  understandings,  of  the  wisest  men. 
There  every  street,  public  edifice,  and  open  space 
was  so  crowded  with  the  images  of  their  popular 
divinities, — and  their  divinities  were  but  the  symbols 
of.  the  worshippers  themselves  personified,  though 
with,  superhuman  strength  and  symmetry,  in  marble, 
metal,  ivory,  or  wood, — that  it  was  almost  a  prov- 
erb, "You  will  as  easily  find  a  god  as  a  man  at 
Athens."  From  this  picturesque  profusion  of  sculp- 
ture, exposed  without  injury  to  the  open  air  in  that 
deliirhtful  clime,  Athens  bi/  night  would  resemble  a 
city  of  statues, — T  had  almost  said  a  city  of  spirits, 
— when  the  cold  moon,  looking  dov/n  from  a  pure 
blue  heaven,  beheld,  emerging  from  black  shadows, 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  271 

innumerable  forms  of  Parian  marble  white  as  snow 
and  disposed  in  every  attitude  of  grace  and  majesty 
One  seems  to  feel  the  silence  of  the  scene  in  thinking 
upon  it ;  its  beauty,  magic,  grandeur,  touch  and 
awe  and  elevate  the  soul,  and  we  almost  expect  that 
one  of  the  more  than  mortal  shapes  should  break 
the  stillness,  and  address  us  in  the  language  of  Peri 
clcs  or  Demosthenes;  till  some  patrician  youth,  like 
Alcibiades,  flushed  with  wine,  apparelled  in  purple, 
and  crowned  with  flowers,  followed  by  a  rabble-rout 
of  bacchanals,  breaking  forth  from  the  haunts  of 
their  revelry,  with  shout,  and  song,  and  dance,  and 
music,  disenchant  the  whole, — or  rather  transform 
the  enchantment  into  a  new  and  more  exhilarating 
spectacle  of  the  midnight  orgies  of  the  finest  sons 
of  Greece  in  her  prime. 

Is  there  anywhere  a  parallel  to  this  picture  of 
imagination'? — Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  an  aban- 
dQned  wilderness,  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  according 
to  an  ancient  tradition,  there  may  be  seen  to  this 
day,  in  perfect  preservation,  a  magnificent  city,  once 
the  capital  of  a  surrounding  empire,  on  which  so 
strange  a  judgment  came,  that  all  its  inhabitants 
were  in  a  moment  turned  to  stone,  while  they  and 
their  dwellings  were  doomed  to  remain,  through 
the  lapse  of  ages,  precisely  as  they  stood,  as  they 
looked,  as  they  v/ere,  at  the  infliction  of  the  stroke. 
The  stillness  of  death — of  death  in  every  form  of 
life,  reigns  within  the  walls,  while  the  multitudes  of 
people  of  all  ages,  ranks,  and  occupations,  who 
seem  to  the  visiter  (if  visiter  ever  enters  there)  at 
the  first  glance  in  the  full  action  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  hurrying  to  and  fro  about  their  busi- 
ness or  their  amusements, — the  longer  you  gaze 
seem  more  and  more  fixed  to  the  eye,  till  the  be- 
holder himself  becomes  almost  petrified  by  sympa- 
thy. Sometimes,  however  (and  it  is  well  for  him, 
when  his  trance  is  so  broken),  a  herd  of  antelopes, 
fleeing  from  a  lion  in  full  chase  after  them,  rush 


272  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

through  the  open  ^ates  of  the  city,  and  bound  along 
the  streets,  regardless  of  the  apparent  throngs  of 
human  beings  wherever  they  turn,  but  whose  mo- 
tionless figures,  through  long  familiarity,  are  to 
them  as  indifterent  as  so  many  unshapen  fragments 
of  rock. — I  must  drop  the  veil  here,  both  over  the 
city  of  Minerva  and  the  city  of  the  desert,  which  I 
have  dared  to  bring  into  crude  comparison  with  it  : 
in  contemplating  either,  imagination  may  have  rmi 
riot  in  the  labyrinths  of  revery,  mistaking  phantoms 
for  realities,  and  vain  fancies  for  high  thoughts.  We 
return  for  a  few  moments  to  the  straightforward  path 
of  historical  retrospection. 

The  Decline  of  Greek  Literature. 

It  has  been  already  stated,  that  the  period  from 
Pisistratus  to  Philip  of  Macedon  was  the  golden  age 
of  Grecian  fame  ;  literature  and  freedom  flourishing 
together, — and  they  ought  never  to  be  separated. 
Literature,  when  freedom  is  lost,  becomes  the  most 
degraded  and  the  most  dangerous  tool  of  despotism ; 
while  freedom  without  literature — that  is,  without 
knowledge — presents  the  most  ferociously  savage 
state  of  human  society,  if  society  can  exist  without 
a  smgle  bond  of  moral  or  civil  restraint.  If  the 
Spartans  were  not  such  an  iron  race,  it  was  because 
learning  and  philosophy,  which  they  affected  to 
despise,  exercised  an  indirect  but  benign  influence 
over  them,  without  betraying  the  secret  of  theii 
power. 

From  the  division  of  the  empire  of  Alexandei 
the  Great,  when  Greece  fell  under  the  dominion  of 
one  of  his  captains,  though  the  Achaian  league  par- 
tially restored  and  maintained  the  republican  spirit 
in  some  of  the  states,  till  the  time  when  the  wnole 
country  passed  under  the  Roman  yoke, — from  the 
death  of  Alexander  to  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Aurehan,  mav  be  styled  the  silver  age  of  Gre(^ce. 


A    RETROSPECT     OF    LITERATURE.  273 

Many  noble  and  illustrious  names  of  the  second 
order  belong  to  this  period.  Then  followed  a  brazen 
time,  which  may  be  brought  as  low  as  the  reign  of 
Heraclius,  emperor  of  the  East,  in  the  seventh  cen> 
tury  of  the  Christian  era.  Thenceforward,  a  long 
series  of  iron  years  have  rolled  in  heavy  and  hope- 
less burden  over  Greece,  under  its  own  latest  sove- 
reigns, and  from  the  fifteenth  century  under  its  Turk- 
ish oppressors  to  the  present  day. 

But  the  circle  of  ages  is  surely  now  complete, 
and  have  w^e  not  the  promise,  the  prospect,  the  com- 
mencement of  an  immediate  return  of  Astrea  to 
Greece,  bringing  back  the  golden  days  of  justice 
liberty,  and  hterature,  to  that  fairest,  most  fertile, 
that  most  wronged  and  forsaken  region  of  the  earth  ? 
Marathon  and  Thermopylae  are  again  named  with 
enthusiasm  by  lips  that  speak  nearly  the  same  dia- 
lect, and  breathe  the  same  spirit  as  Miltiades  and 
Leonidas, — from  bosoms  in  which  the  fire  of  Gre- 
cian bards  and  Grecian  heroes  has  been  recently  re- 
kindled. That  fire,  indeed,  broke  forth  at  first  with 
an  avenging  violence,  which,  if  it  consumed  not  its 
enemies,  repelled  them  from  the  soil :  but  now  since 
security  and  repose  may  be  looked  for,  we  may  hope 
that  the  tempered  flame  will,  once  more  and  for  ever, 
shine  out  with  a  purity  and  splendour  that  shall  rival, 
if  it  cannot  eclipse,  the  glory  of  the  better  days  of 
ancient  Greece. 


274  A     !lKTROSPt;CT    OF    LITERATURE. 

No.   III. 

Greek  and  Roman  Polity  contrasted. 

GtthkJOE  and  Rome  were  the  reverse  of  each  othei 
in  resiject'  to  arts  and  arms.  Greece,  divided  into 
almost  as  many  little  commonwealths  as  there  were 
islands  in  her  seas,  or  encircling  mountains  and  in- 
tersecting^ rivers  on  her  main  land,  was  prevented 
from  extending:  her  dominion  otherwise  than  by 
colonization  along:  the  neighbouring  shores  of  Asia 
Mhior,  Sicily,  and  Calabria ;  while  at  home  perpetual 
jealousies  and  feuds  tended  rather  to  preserve  than 
to  endanger  or  destroy  the  balanced  independence 
of  her  numerous  states.  In  one  instance  only 
Greece  became  an  invader  and  a  conqueror;  but  that 
vv^as  not  till  she  herself  had  been  invaded  and  con- 
quered by  Philip  of  Macedon.  Then,  not  of  choice 
but  from  compulsion,  under  his  son  Alexander,  her 
collected  armies,  small  in  comparative  numbers,  but 
forming  a  phalanx  of  which  every  soldier  was  in 
himsel  a  host,  were  led  through  the  heart  of  Asia, 
and  even  to  the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  reducing  the 
whole  eastern  world  to  the  personal  sway  of  their 
commander;  for  it  was  for  himself,  and  not  for  his 
country, — for  himself  alone,  and  not  for  a  dynasty 
of  princes  in  his  own  line,  that  "Macedonia's  mad- 
man" won  the  most  unwieldy  empire  the  world  ever 
saw  : — it  rose,  it  stood,  it  fell  with  him. 

To  the  political  fate  of  Greece  after  his  demise 
allusion  sufficient  has  already  been  made.  It  never 
agam  was  a  conqueror  at  home  or  abroad.  In 
cfreece,  therefore  (Sparta  excepted,  which  from  the 
days  of  Lycurgus,  through  many  generations,  main- 
tained its  standing  as  its  legislator  had  left  it, — in 
resolute  semi-barbarism  ;  uniting  the  savage  virtue.* 


A   j!!;T!n)SiM.ri'   of    liti  katim;k.  275 

with  a  liiQ-h  tone  of  moral  feeling-  on  some  points, 
and  a  deplorable  profligacy  on  others) :  in  Greece, 
the  culture  of  the  fine  arts  was  the  principal  occu- 
pation of  the  most  accomplished  minds,  and'  the 
profession  of  arms  was  secondary,  but  only  second- 
ary, :uid  almost  parallel  witii  this  favourite  pursuit 
among  those  who  had  leisure  to  choose  their  way  of 
life.  In  Rome,  on  the  contrary,  for  seven  centuries 
after  the  foundation  of  the  city,  aggression  and  ag- 
grandizement were  the  watchwords  of  her  citizens, 
and  universal  empire  the  secret  or  avowed  aim  of 
her  warriors  and  statesmen  ;  till,  having  won  the 
world  with  her  sword,  she  became  the  victim  of  that 
reaction  by  which  nature  avenges  herself  on  all, 
whether  individuals  or  nations,  who  outrage  her 
equity  in  the  distribution  of  power,  wealth,  dignity 
or  dominion.  The  luxuries  and  the  vices  of  the 
couvjuered  countries  became  the  snares  and  the  de- 
stroyers of  Rome  herself. 

But  before  we  proceed  to  notice  the  literature  of 
Rome  in  a  retrospect  like  the  present,  brief  as  it 
must  be  even  on  the  main  subjects,  it  will  be  requi- 
site to  glance  at  least  for  a  few  moments  upon  the 
character  and  condition  of  the  multitude,  both  in 
Greece  and  Italy,  during  the  two  most  brilliant  eras 
of  each.  The  term  classic,  affixed  by  way  of  pre- 
eminence to  the  literature  and  arts  of  these  people, 
operates  like  a  spell  upon  our  imagination  :  without 
attaching  to  it  any  definite  meaning,  we  associate 
with  it  all  that  is  great  and  splendid,  beautiful  and 
excellent,  in  the  surviving  pages  of  ancient  authors 
as  well  as  all  that  is  venerable,  sublime,  and  almost 
superhuman  in  the  relics  of  Greek  and  Roman  archi- 
tecture and  sculpture — the  severest  and  most  endur- 
inu-  of  manual  labours. 

In.  t'ricsp,  for  the  present  at  least,  let  the  writers, 
the  builders,  and  the  artists  stand  alone  and  unri- 
va!  jed.  They  were  the  few,  but  what  were  the  many,  in 
lii       e  .-■  ...f  .    i'l-^ioMs   vv'.en  •■■   wv    h.ivc    derived 


276  A     RETUOSPKCT    OF    LITERATURE. 

those  treasures  of  learnins:,  and  in  which  we  inbfiril 
tas  common  property  to  all  who  liave  minds  to  ad- 
mire them)  tliose  stupendous  structures  of  human 
skill  and  might  1  So  far  as  the  epithet  classic  is  an 
accommodated  word,  employed  by  a  kind  of  literary 
courtesy  to  designate  superiority  of  intellect  and 
knowledge,  I  am  bold  to  affirm  that  Britain  is  as 
clas.-jjc  as  Greece  was  in  the  days  of  Homer,  and  as 
Rome  was  at  any  period  between  her  foundation  and 
the  close  of  the  third  Punic  war.  I  speak  of  the 
relative  intelligence  of  the  whole  body  of  the  people, 
rank  for  rank,  in  each  of  those  countries  compared 
with  the  actual  measure  of  information  diffused 
through  the  corresponding  orders  in  this  island. 

The  Common  People  of  Greece. 

In  all  the  classic  regions  of  antiquity,  whether 
monarchies  or  republics,  knowledge  was  a  species 
of  free-masonry;  none  but  the  initiated  were  the 
depositaries  of  its  secrets,  and  these  privileged  per- 
sons were  almost  universally  princes,  nobles,  priests, 
or  men  of  high  degree,  including  tnose  who,  from 
bent  of  genius  or  other  auspicious  circumstances, 
were  devoted  by  choice,  or  compelled  by  office,  to 
the  cultivation  of  letters  and  philosophy.  The  vul- 
gar, the  profane  vulgar,  the  multitude,  the  million, 
were  jealously  and  cruelly  excluded  from  the  bene- 
fits of  learning,  except  in  so  far  as  these  were  neces- 
sarily and  benignly  reflected  upon  them  in  the  kinder 
conduct  and  more  affable  manners  of  their  masters 
and  superiors  ;  for  long  before  Bacon  uttered  the 
famous  oracle — "knowledge  is  power,"*  the  ancients 
were  aware  of  that  mystery,  unsuspected  by  the 
ignorant,  whom  they  ruled  by  that  very  power — the 
power  of  knowledge,  both  in  spiritual  and  temporal 
predominance,  as  their  subjects  and  their  slaves. 

'"A  wiso  mail  is  strong;  yea,  a  irian  o\'  kno\vlc(l<re  iiscrpaseih 
eneiijrth  "— Prnv.  xxiv.  5 


A    iiiyr.'josPKcr   ok    i.rrE?!ATURE.  27"? 

Now  ;Md  then,  iadeed,  an  yEsop,  a  Terence,  or  an 
Epictetus,  by  the  irrepressible  buoyancy  of  native 
talent  rose  from  the  bottom  of  that  stajjnant  gulf, 
Under  which  living  intelligences  were  laid  down  in 
darkness  like  beds  of  oysters ;  rose  from  the  mud 
of  servile  degradation,  to  vindicate  the  honour  of 
outraged  humanity,  and  teach  both  kingn  and  sages, 
that  within  the  thickest  shell  of  a  slave  there  is  the 
kernel  of  a  man,  which  only  grows  not  because  it  is 
not  planted  ;  or,  when  planted,  only  flourishes  not 
because  it  is  unworthily  beaten  down  and  trampled 
under  foot  by  those  who  ought  to  hav(;  cherished, 
and  pruned,  and  reared  it  to  fertility.  Oh!  what  a 
waste  of  mind  and  worth !  Vv'hat  havoc  of  talent 
and  capacity,  of  every  degree  and  of  every  kind,  is 
implied  in  that  perpetuated  thraldom  of  uninstructed- 
ness  (if  I  may  coin  such  a  negative),  wherein  the 
bulk  of  mankind,  through  every  age  and  nation  under 
heaven,  have  been  held  by  tyrants  as  brutish  as 
themselves,  who  knew  nothing  of  knowledge  ex- 
cept that  they  feared  it ;  or  by  the  more  flagrant  in- 
justice of  those  who  possessed,  but  durst  not  or 
would  not  communicate  it  to  the  multitude !  Tlie 
aristocracy  of  learning  has  been  the  veriest  despot- 
ism ever  exercised  upon  earth,  for  it  was  bondage 
both  to  soul  and  body  in  those  who  were  its  victinis. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  spirits — immortal  spir- 
its— have  dwelt  in  human  bodies  almost  uncon- 
scious of  their  own  existence,  and  utterly  ignorant 
of  their  unawakened  powers,  which,  had  instruction 
been  as  general  as  it  is  at  this  day,  and  in  our  land, 
might,  with  Newton,  have  unfolded  the  laws  of  the 
universe,  with  Bacon,  have  detected  the  arcana  of 
nature  by  the  talisman  of  experiment,  or,  with  Locke, 
have  tauglit  the  mind  with  introverted  eye  to  look 
at  itself,  and  range  at  home  through  all  the  invisible 
world  of  thought.  Had  this  been  the  case  three 
thousand  years  ago,  and  tlienceforwrird  unint^^rrupt- 
edlv,  the  abstrusest  branche-s  of  Ji;-*urr;l  phiiosojihy 


278  A     RETROSPECT    OF    LlTKUATniE. 

and  metaphysics  themselves  might  now  have  been 
nearly  as  intelligible,  and  as  certain  in  their  data  and 
conclusions  as  are  mathematics  and  mechanics,  or 
the  abstract  principles  of  jurisprudence. 

That  the  bulk  of  the  Athenians  themselves,  even 
in  the  age  of  Pericles,  were  little  skilled  in  reading 
and  writing,  is  the  almost  inevitable  conclusion  to 
be  drawn  from  the  state  of  literature,  in  reference 
lo  the  means  of  diffusing  it  in  ancient  times.  Before 
the  invention  of  printing,  the  slow  production,  the 
consequent  scarcity,  and  the  enormous  value  of  books 
when  all  were  manuscript,  placed  the  possession  of 
them  beyond  the  reach  of  the  poor  :  and  where  libra- 
ries existed,  few  but  the  learned  and  the  great  could 
have  access  to  them.  The  mode  of  publishing  new 
works  (independent  of  private  communication)  was  by 
readings  to  companies  for  hire  or  gratuitously  in  the 
open  market-place,  the  schools  and  walks  of  phi- 
losophy, or  at  the  Olympic  and  other  national  games, 
when  all  Greece  was  assembled  to  witness  the  cor- 
poreal and  mtellectual  prowess  of  her  most  distin- 
guished progeny. 

How  imperfect,  as  well  as  how  precarious,  such 
means  of  circulating  knowledge  must  have  been,  we 
may  judge  by  trying  the  experiment  in  imagination 
at  home.  Suppose  that  all  the  theological  works 
to  which  the  people  of  this  great  city  could  refer 
were  chained,  as  the  Bible,  Common  Prayer,  and 
Homilies  used  to  be,  in  the  chancels  of  our  churches ; 
and  all  the  books  on  general  literature,  approachable 
by  ordinary  readers,  were  attached  to  tables  and 
desks  under  this  roof,  and  within  the  walls  of  simi- 
lar institutions  and  public  libraries ;  and,  further, 
that  no  volume  were  allowed  to  be  taken  out,  or  even 
perused,  except  under  the  eye  of  a  sentinel  with  a 
drawn  sword  or  shouldered  musket,  for  the  protec- 
tion of  property  so  rare  and  precious ; — how  many, 
or  rather  how  few,  of  llie  thousands  and  the  tens  of 
thousands  who   are  now    »<.>iid('rs  and  b(>t>k-owners 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  279 

in  this  metropolis,  would  avail  themselves  of  privi- 
leges so  paiiifully  to  be  enjoyed !  Would  )iot  the 
sevenfold  majority  of  the  inhabitants  satisfy  them- 
selves with  what  they  could  learn  of  relij^ion  on  the 
Sabbath  ]  But  the  poor  Greek  had  no  Sabbath,  on 
which,  resting  from  toil,  he  might  repair  to  the  tem- 
ple, the  grove,  or  the  portico,  for  such  instruction 
as  priests  and  sages  miglit  deign  to  afford  him. 
And  would  any,  except  those  to  whom  literature  was 
the  daily  bread  of  their  minds,  indulge  an  appetite 
for  its  dainties  under  the  politic  restraints  of  literary 
societies  so  circumstanced  1 

Morals  and  science,  therefore,  at  Athens,  were 
principally  tauglit  by  word  of  mouth,  and  their  les- 
sons were  learned  through  the  ear ;  the  eyes  of  the 
vulgar  had  little  to  do  towards  the  improvement  of 
their  minds,  except  as  an  habitual  taste  for  paint- 
ing and  sculpture,  of  which  the  most  finished  speci- 
mens were  familiar  to  them  from  infancy,  tended  to 
soften  external  rudeness,  but  added  ahijost  nothing 
to  the  stock  of  knowledge  beyond  the  ideas  of  fine 
forms.  Nay,  even  the  curious  delight  and  critical 
exactness  with  which  they  listened  to  the  strains 
of  poets,  and  the  arguments  of  orators  in  the  forum, 
as  well  as  the  recital  of  the  noblest  and  severest 
forms  of  tragic  sentiment,  and  the  subtilest  and  most 
poignant  sallies  of  comic  wit  on  the  stage — were 
perfectly  consistent  with  a  very  moderate  standard 
of  actual  information  among  a  lively,  sensitive,  and 
voluptuous  people.  It  is  certain  that  a  fine  but  fac- 
titious taste  may  be  formed  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances (and  theirs  were  very  peculiar),  without 
effort,  and  with  little  knowledge  of  the  subjects  on 
which  it  is  exercised;  such  taste  referring  almost 
exclusively  to  the  manner  in  which  they  are 
handled.  Hence  Demosthenes  might  well  say  that 
the  first,  the  second,  and  the  third  requisite  of  a 
good  speech  was  delivery ;   that  necessarily  inclu- 


280  A   RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

ding  harnioiiTv^us  composition  as  well  as  brilliant  ut- 
terance. 

So  situated,  the  Athenian  artisan  had  scarcely  a 
motive  to  lenrn  to  read,  because  if  he  acquired  the 
ability,  he  could  have  little  opportunity  to  use  it. 
Writing-,  indeed,  was  a  profession,  and  the  occupa- 
tion of  a  scribe  must  have  been  a  profitable  one ; 
but  of  course  it  was  chiefly  exercised  in  the  service 
of  the  wealthy,  the  learned,  and  the  great;  those 
who  could  afford  to  purchase  books,  and  those  who 
i^ould  not  live  without  them.  That  the  deficiency 
of  instruction  by  means  of  lessons  addressed  to  the 
eye  was  not  compensated  by  those  addressed  to  the 
ear,  appears  from  an  anecdote  familiar  to  every 
schoolboy,  but  which  may  be  repeated  here  for  the 
sake  of  the  twofold  illustration  of  our  argument 
which  it  aff"ords.  Aristides  had  incurred  the  enmity 
of  his  fellow-citizens  on  account  of  his  pre-emi- 
nent virtues.  A  clown,  ignorant  even  of  his  person, 
applied  to  him  to  mark  his  own  name  for  banishment 
on  the  shell  used  in  the  ballot  of  ostracism.  Hav- 
ing complied  with  this  request,  the  philosopher  in- 
quired what  the  accused  had  done  to  deserve  such  a 
punishment.  "  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  fellow ; 
"  but  it  provokes  me  to  think  that  he,  of  all  men, 
should  strive  to  be  called  the  just.""  This  story  con- 
firms the  assumption  that  the  common  people  of 
Greece,  in  her  glory,  were  not  generally  taught  to 
read  and  write,  and  that  not  only  moral  feeling, 
but  intellectual  discernment  also,  was  much  lower 
among  them  than  among  our  contemporarip.s 

The  common  People  of  Rome. 

The  founder  of  Rome  seems  to  have  been  as  much 
of  a  savage  as  might  be  expected  of  one  who  was 
suckled  by  a  wolf.  It  was  the  genius  and  sagacity  of 
his  successor  which  established  by  wisdom  what  lie 


A   lurrnosr-Kt  f  of   i.iTKHATURi--.  281 

h;id  hei^iin  in  violence,  and  gave  to  "  the  eternal 
city"  the  principle  of  duration.  Romulus  had  formed 
a  body ;  Nunia  Pompilius  lent  the  soul ;  he  made  his 
own  soul  immortal  upon  earth  in  it ;  and  his  spirit 
svi'ayed  the  counsels  and  led  the  enterprises  of  its 
senators  and  warriors  in  every  stage  of  its  progress 
to  universal  sovereignty.  If  but  for  RomuhisRome 
had  never  been — it  may  be  affirmed,  that  but  for 
Numa  Pompilius,  Rome  had  not  continued  to  be,  or 
had  not  risen  above  the  level  of  the  petty  conmion- 
wealths  that  surrounded  and  harassed  it  without 
cessation,  till  they  were  all  ingulfed  in  its  vortex. 
This  great  prince,  in  a  dark  age,  at  the  head  of  a 
horde  of  barbarian  adventurers,  by  his  transcendent 
policy  and  enlightened  institutes,  not  only  perpet- 
uated the  civil  polity  of  the  in^'^nt  state  on  the  basis 
of  knowledge  being  power,  but,  by  virtue  of  the  same 
victorious  principle,  enabled  the  youthful  republic  in 
the  sequel  to  extend  her  empire  beyond  the  ditch 
over  which  Remus  leaped  in  contempt,  and  was  slain 
in  it  by  his  brother,  from  the  Euphrates  on  the  one 
hand,  to  the  Atlantic  on  the  other ;  and  from  Ethi- 
opia, within  the  precincts  of  the  torrid  zone,  to  Brit- 
ain, "  divided  from  the  world,"  towards  the  north. 

The  Romans  laboured  under  the  same  disadvan- 
tages in  acquiring  and  communicating  knowledge  as 
the  Greeks ;  and  they  laboured  under  many  more 
from  the  rough  fierce  manners  of  the  plebeians,  and 
the  unquenchable  thirst  for  martial  glory  that  distin- 
guished the  patricians.  Education,  of  consequence, 
was  low  among  all  classes,  not  excepting  the  highest, 
till  after  the  reduction  of  Greece,  when  the  polite 
arts  of  the  vanquished  brought  the  conquerors  under 
the  liberal  yoke  of  instruction.  Meanwhile,  how- 
ever, even  in  these  youthful  days  of  Rome,  we 
meet  with  more  examples,  and  those  examples  of  a 
higher  order,  of  pure  virtue,  self-denial,  self-devo- 
tion, self-sacrifice,  than  pagan  antiquity  can  fur- 
nish from  all  its  records  besides.  Simple  maimers, 
Y 


282  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

generous  sentiments,  unaffected  scorn  of  corruption, 
public  spirit,  and  a  certain  peculiar  intellectual  cou- 
rage, as  well  as  that  personal  valour  which  was  a 
matter  of  course,  being  called  into  continual  exer- 
cise by  the  economy  of  war  m  those  times,  in  which, 
during  every  battle,  innumerable  single  combats 
were  waging  at  once  throughout  the  whole  field ; 
these  were  the  common  qualities  of  the  earlier 
Romans  and  their  descendants  for  five  centuries. 

The  circumstance  to  which  this  cast  of  charactei 
may  be  traced  is  honourable  to  the  people,  and  glo- 
rious to  that  sex  which,  among  the  Romans,  was 
always  treated  with  the  revereiice,  not  less  than  the 
affection,  which  "  man  that  is  born  of  a  woman" 
owes  to  her  from  whom  he  not  only  derives  life,  but 
to  whom  he  is  indebted  even  until  death  for  life's 
best  comforts  and  sweetest  enjoyments.  That  rev- 
erence among  uncivilized  tribes  is  rarely  paid  by 
the  savage  of  the  forest  or  the  wilderness  to  his  help- 
mate ;  and  even  among  the  polished  nations  of  an- 
tiquity, Greece  herself  not  excepted,  woman  had  not 
the  honour  due  to  her  ;  her  lord  and  master,  there- 
fore, derived  not  from  her  the  benefit  of  that  influ- 
ence which  she  was  intended  to  exercise  over  him, 
without  appearing  to  exercise  any  influence  at  all. 
The  Roman  matrons  and  the  Roman  maidens  are 
equally  illustrious  in  the  primitive  annals  of  their 
country.  The  mothers  were  the  instructers  of  the 
youth  of  both  sexes;  they  taught  them  at  home; 
every  family  v;as  a  school  of  industry  and  a  school 
of  virtue;  frank,  simple,  and  austere.  Regarding 
their  children  as  their  jewels,  it  was  their  duty,  their 
pride,  and  their  happiness  to  make  them  as  intrinsic- 
ally valuable  and  externally  ornamental  as  might  be. 

Roman  Literature. 

At  length,  Carthage  destroyed,  and  Greece  sub- 
dued, literature  began  to  be  cultivated  with  enthu- 
siasm by  this  hardy  and  heroic  people;  and,  once 


A    RKTROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  283 

introduced,  it  soon  beg-an  to  show  its  benign  influ- 
ence on  the  manners  of  all  classes,  from  tlie  patri- 
cian to  the  domestic  slave,  and  to  produce  its  fruits 
in  minds  of  every  mould,  wherein  the  seeds  of  know- 
ledjj^e  were  sown.  About  this  era  flourished  Ennius 
and  Plautus;  and  thenceforward  Rome  rose  as 
rapidly  in  letters  as  in  arms:  so  that,  within  a  gene- 
ration or  two,  Lucretius,  Catullus,  and  Cicero  had 
advanced  the  intellectual  glory  of  their  country  to 
the  verge  of  its  consummation.  But  even  in  the 
Augustan  age,  which  followed,  wlien  we  consider  the 
base  means  by  whicli  the  Roman  people  were  bribed 
into  slavery,  held  in  gorgeous  fetters,  and  their  fero-^ 
cious  passions  glutted  with  cruel  and  bloody  specta- 
cles to  restrain  them  from  reflecting  on  their  degra- 
dation, and  conspiring  against  the  new  tyranny  ; 
who  can  doubt,  that  in  morals  and  understanding, 
LfOndon,  at  this  hour,  is  as  classic  as  pagan  Rome 
was  in  the  proudest  moment  of  her  splendid  infamy  T 
The  verses  of  the  elder  Romans,  so  far  as  can  be 
collected  concerning  their  character,  were  burlesque 
and  satirical  (like  those  of  the  modern  Greenlanders) 
rather  than  warlike  and  devotional,  as  the  earliest 
poetry  generally  is.  But  from  the  expulsion  of  the 
Tarquins  and  the  establishment  of  a  consular  govern- 
ment, eloquence  was  always  in  special  esteem,  and 
diligently  cultivated,  though  of  a  kind  corresponding 
with  the  simple  habits,  narrow  learning,  and  turbu- 
lent circumstances  of  the  times.  The  tongue  was 
the  weapon  with  which  civil  war  was  carried  on,  and 
political  ascendency  gained,  in  the  conflicts  betw3en 
the  patricians  and  the  plebeians, — at  everlasting  strife 
with  each  other  in  the  forum,  but  in  perpetualleague 
in  every  other  field,  where  the  sword  was  the  arbi- 
ter, and  the  spoils  of  the  world  the  prize  of  victory. 
Hence  the  Latin  language,  even  before  it  was  em- 
ployed for  the  more  brilliant  exercises  of  literature, 
had  been  highly  wrought,  and  condensed  into  a  most 
energetic  vehicle  for  the  commerce  of  thought;  and 


284  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

afterward,  by  the  practice  of  its  best  speakers  and 
writers,  grace  and  vigour  became  equally  blended 
in  its  construction  and  idiom.  Inferior  in  copious- 
ness, splendour,  and  flexibility,  to  the  inimitable 
Greek,  it  is  itself  inimitable  in  pithy  and  sententious 
brevity ;  while  in  grandeur  and  beauty  its  orators 
and  poets  have  left  examples  of  its  capabilities  which 
those  of  its  rival  tongue  can  scarcely  excel.  From 
Ennius  to  Virgil,  there  was  a  rapidly  ascending  suc- 
cession of  master-minds,  formed  not  only  to  rule  the 
taste  of  contemporaries,  but  to  give  laws  of  thinking 
to  all  posterity  by  whom  their  labours  of  thought 
should  be  possessed  with  the  power  of  appreciating 
such  models  of  excellence. 

During  the  triumvirate  of  Octavius,  Antony,  and 
Lepidus,  there  were  living  at  once  in  Italy  the 
greatest  number  of  poets,  orators,  historians,  and 
philosophers  that  Rome  ever  knew ;  and  many  of 
these  were  of  the  highest  rank  in  their  respective 
professions.  But  in  Rome,  as  in  Greece,  with  hb- 
erty  fell  literature,  not  indeed  at  once,  for  she  rose 
and  fell  frequently — rising  weaker,  and  falling  hea- 
vier each  time ;  but  from  the  hour  when  Augustus 
assumed  the  purple,  he  put  chains  upon  the  Muses, 
— golden  ones  indeed,  and  sparkling  with  gems,  but 
still  they  zvs-re  chains, — chains  that  bound  the  soul. 
Adorned  and  degraded  with  these  they  were  com- 
pelled to  walk  in  his  train — beautiful  captives,  smil- 
ing like  infants,  and  singing  like  syrens,  but  sick  at 
heart,  pining  in  thought  as  they  followed  the  tri- 
umphal car  of  the  enslaver  of  their  country  ;  atwhose 
v/heels  Roman  freedom,  Roman  virtue,  Roman  glory, 
Were  dragged  in  the  dust ;  and  never,  never  again 
stood  upriglit,  and  strong,  and  fearless  as  before. 

Thenceforward  literature  and  philosophy  visibly 
declined  ;  slowly  at  first,  but  with  accelerating  tend- 
ency towards  final  extinction ;  so  that  from  the 
close  of  tlie  reign  of  Trajan  down  to  the  fourth  cen- 
tury of  the  Christian  era,  when  the  poet  Claudian 


A    RETROSPECT    OF     LITERATURE.  285 

flourished,  who,  with  all  his  faults,  was  worthy  of  a 
better  age, — there  is  not  a  solitary  monument  of 
Roman  genius  to  rank  with  the  masterpieces  of  the 
fifty  years  which  either  preceded  or  followed  the 
usurpation  of  supreme  power  by  Augustivs.  There 
are,  however,  various  useful  and  interesting  produc- 
tions amid  this  decay  of  learning,  which  throw  light 
upon  the  public  events  and  private  manners  of  the 
intervening  period  of  intestine  turbulence  and  bar- 
barian aggression  by  which  the  pride  and  power  of 
Rome  were  gradually  shaken,  dilapidated,  over- 
thrown, and  finally  broken  to  pieces  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tiber,  never  to  be  reinstated. 

Literatwe  during  the  Middle  Ages. 

For  nearly  ten  centuries  succeeding,  the  literature 
both  of  Greece  and  Rome  was  of  a  character  so 
heterogeneous,  that  this  epithet  alone  will  be  suffi- 
cient to  designate  it, — the  necessary  brevity  of  the 
present  review  not  allowing  us  to  waste  another 
word  upon  it  in  reference  to  antiquity.  Meanwhile, 
revolution  after  revolution  changed  the  condition  of 
the  people  that  inhabited  the  provinces  of  the  western 
empire  from  the  death  of  Constantine  the  Great. 
The  Goths,  Vandals,  Huns,  with  numberless  and 
nameless  tribes  of  barbarians,  emigrating  in  mass, — 
like  mountains  midermined,  and  sliding  from  their 
base  ,  or  forests  on  morasses,  slowly  ruptured,  and 
ingulfing  their  own  growth  as  well  as  inundating 
the  adjacent  plains — from  Scythia,  Sarmatia,  Siberia, 
and  the  inexhaustible  regions  of  Tartary,  overran 
Germany,  Gaul,  Italy,  and  Spain  ;  out  of  wiiose  par- 
titions of  the  spoil  of  Europe  gradually  arose  its 
modern  empires,  kingdoms,  and  commonwealths. 
From  the  stern  and  summary  principles  of  equity 
among  these  rude  people,  grafted  upon  tlie  Roman 
institutes  imbodied  by  Justinian,  sprang  the  laws 
and  policy  of  Christian  nations  at  tliis  day.     In 


286  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

Britain  itself  we  owe  more  of  the  rights  and  freedom 
we  enjoy  to  those  hordes,  which  have  been  held  up 
to  indignation  as  the  ravagers  and  destroyers  ol 
every  thing  great,  and  good,  and  glorious,  in  govern 
ment  and  literature,  during  that  revolutionary  strug- 
gle, which  compelled  the  Romans  to  withdraw  theii 
legions  and  their  colonists  from  our  remote  island, 
and  reduced  the  enfeebled  natives  to  call  in  the  aid 
of  the  Saxons  to  repel  the  inroads  of  the  Picts  and 
Scots ;  we  owe  more  to  these  vilified  savages  than 
to  their  illustrious  victims,  whose  fate  has  so  often 
excited  the  compassion  of  historians,  poets,  moral- 
ists, and  declaimers  of  every  class.  Yet  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  after  all,  that  the  Romans,  from  their 
degeneracy,  were  worthy  of  no  better  a  fate  ;  nay, 
they  were  so  irrecoverably  corrupt  and  emasculate, 
that  the  infusion  of  purer  blood  from  the  full  foun- 
tains of  the  north  had  become  requisite  to  restore 
human  nature  itself  in  the  south  of  Europe  to  health, 
vigour,  and  temperance, — the  true  standard  both  of 
mental  and  bodily  enjoyment  and  perfection. 

The  fate  of  the  Eastern  Empire  was  longer  held  in 
suspense  :  it  stood  a  thousand  years  on  its  new  base, 
at  the  point  where  Europe  and  Asia  meet  on  the 
opposite  shores  of  the  Hellespont ;  but  it  fell,  in  the 
sequel,  after  many  a  long  and  furious  struggle  against 
the  encroachments  of  the  Saracens  and  the  Turks. 
Nothing  in  history  is  more  extraordinary  than  the 
sudden  rise,  the  rapid  progress,  and  the  amazing  ex- 
tension of  the  empire  of  the  former.  In  less  than 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  the  Saracen  arms  had  con- 
quered all  the  western,  southern,  and  eastern  prov- 
iixes  of  the  Roman  world,  including  Spain,  Barbary, 
Libya,  Egypt,  Palestine,  Syria,  Asia  Minor,  and  the 
adjacent  regions;  to  which  were  added  Arabia, 
whence  they  issued,  with  Persia,  a  great  part  of  Tar- 
tary,  and  in  process  of  time  the  whole  of  India  within 
the  Ganges,  where  the  eagles  of  Rome  had  never 
even  alighted,  much  less  gathered  themselves  to- 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  287 

gether  upon  the  prey.  It  is  true  that  all  these  coun- 
tries were  never,  at  the  same  time,  under  the  imme- 
diate sovereignty  of  one  prince ;  but  it  is  not  the 
caliphate  of  Bagdad  alone  of  which  we  now  speak, 
— the  reference  is  to  the  domination  at  large  of 
the  Saracens,  whom  their  kindred  origin,  language, 
manners,  religion,  and  the  rage,  first  for  conquest, 
and  afterward  for  knowledge,  assimilated  with  each 
other,  and  distinguished  from  every  people  under 
heaven  besides. 

MaJiomet. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  century,  an  un- 
lettered slave  and  a  "renegade  monk  invented  a  new 
form  of  superstition, — a  triple  cord  to  bind  the  hu- 
man spirit,  composed  of  certain  parts  of  Judaism, 
Christianity,  and  paganism,  so  subtly  and  inextrica- 
bly implicated,  that  to  this  day  it  continues  to  hold 
in  captivity  as  great  a  multitude  of  our  divided  race 
as  ever  professed  the  same  form  of  faith. 

Among  the  innumerable  millions  of  those  who 
have  lived  and  died  in  this  world  of  change  and  mor- 
tality, if  we  were  to  fix  on  one  whose  existence, 
opinions,  and  actions,  in  their  results,  have  more 
extensively  influenced  the  destinies  of  a  larger  pro- 
portion of  their  fellow-creatures  than  those  of  any 
other,  we  should  name  the  false  prophet  of  Mecca. 
There  have  been  warriors,  legislators,  and  fanatics, 
who,  in  their  circle,  have  equalled  and  even  excelled 
him  in  prowess,  policy,  and  extravagance  ;  but  not 
one  can  be  brought  into  entire  competition  with  Ma- 
homet for  the  spread  and  permanence  of  his  fame, 
either  as  conqueror,  lawgiver,  •  or  impostor.  His 
empire,  institutes,  and  superstition  have  been  rooted 
and  perpetuated  over  so  vast  a  portion  of  the  old 
world,  that  the  tail  of  his  elborach  (the  beast  which 
carried  him  on  liis  miraculous  journey  to  Paradise), 
—the  tail  of  his  elborach,  like  that  of  the  dragon  in 


288  A     RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

the  Apocalypse,  may  be  said  to  have  drawn  after 
him  a  third  part  of  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  cast 
them  down  to  the  earth.  Interpreting'  these  stars 
agreeable  to  the  hieroglyphic  language  of  prophecy, 
as  signifying  kings  and  their  kingdoms,  states  and 
their  people,  this  has  been  literally  the  case  for 
twelve  centuries, — a  longer  date  than  that  of  any 
single  empire,  ancient  or  modern.  In  this  view 
Mahomet  may  be  called  the  greatest  and  most  ex 
traordinary  man  that  ever  had  being  on  earth. 

The  former  part  of  this  impostor's  life,  compared 
with  the  latter,  presents  one  of  the  most  striking 
contrasts  that  can  be  found  even  in  the  fictions  of 
poetry.  According  to  the  generally  received  ac 
counts,  he  was  the  posthumous  son  of  his  father, 
early  left  an  orphan  by  his  mother,  and  adopted  by 
an  uncle,  who,  being  too  poor  to  provide  for  his 
wants,  sold  him  into  bondage  at  sixteen  years  of 
age.  Then,  however,  he  grev/  into  such  favour  with 
his  master  that  he  was  intrusted  by  him  with  many 
valuable  mercantile  enterprises, — and  into  such  fa- 
vour with  his  mistress,  that,  on  the  decease  of  her 
husband,  she  conferred  on  her  slave  her  person  and 
her  wealth. 

Had  one  of  the  numberless  deaths  that  lie  in  am- 
bush day  and  night  around  the  path  of  man,  and  to 
which,  from  the  ill-fortune  of  his  childhood,  and  the 
misery  of  his  circumstances  till  he  had  passed  ma- 
turity, Mahomet  was  more  imminently  exposed  than 
it  is  the  chance  (so  to  speak)  of  most  people, — had 
one  of  those  deaths  cut  him  off,  in  some  unexpected 
moment,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  what  would  have 
been  the  actual  religious  and  political,  condition  of 
many  of  the  richest  provinces  of  Asia,  Africa,  and 
Europe,  during  the  ages  upon  ages  in  which  his  suc- 
cessors— as  true  to  his  religion  as  that  religion  is 
true  to  the  worst  passions  of  human  nature, — have 
followed  him  in  his  track  of  blood;  carrying  the 
sword  and  the  Koran  from  the  heart  of  Arabia  to 


A    RKTROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  289 

the  extremes  of  east  and  west  of  the  ancient  con- 
tinent. What  has  been  the  condition  of  those  most 
magnificent,  and,  from  sacred  and  classic  associa- 
tions, those  most  venerable  countries  of  the  globe, 
is  well  known,  and  need  not  be  particularized  here. 

But  it  is  humiliating  to  the  pride  of  human  intel- 
lect, that  the  most  comprehensive  moral  change  that 
ever  was  effected  by  a  mere  man  in  the  character  of 
an  immense  proportion  of  the  species  was  the  work 
of  a  barbarian,  unacquainted  with  the  literature  and 
science  of  his  own  Arabia,  as  scanty  at  that  time  as 
the  herbage  in  its  deserts  ;  and  it  is  yet  more  deroga- 
tory to  the  vaunted  pretensions  of  human  virtue, 
unaided  by  a  really  divine  influence,  that  this  moral 
change  was  itself  the  greatest  moral  evil  from  one 
source  with  which  our  race  has  been  visited  since 
the  serpent  beguiled  Eve  with  his  subtlety.  The 
Koran,  which  contains  the  oracles  of  this  anomalous 
heresy, — anomalous,  yet  so  admirably  adapted  to  all 
the  fierce  and  licentious  passions  of  our  nature  that 
it  required  no  miracle  to  aid  the  sword  in  its  promul- 
gation, finding  or  making  a  traitor  in  every  evil  heart 
which  it  assailed, — the  Koran  is  said  to  be  a  model 
of  elegant  Arabic  composition,  and  though  anti- 
quated, by  no  means  deserving  the  character  which 
the  celebrated  John  Hutchinson  gives  of  it ;  namely^ 
that  it  is  a  jargon  of  dialects  never  spoken  by  man. 
The  learned  Hebraist,  in  this  instance,  was  probably 
prejudiced  by  his  abhorrence  of  the  doctrines  which 
this  apocryphal  volume  contains.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  diction  be  so  pure,  it  could  not  have  been 
the  work  of  the  arch-deceiver  himself,  or  he  was  not 
the  illiterate  personage  whom  he  affected  to  be,  per- 
haps for  this  very  purpose, — that  the  eloquence  and 
knowledge  displayed  in  this  pretended  revelation 
might  appear  supernatural,  and  self-evidence  that  he 
was  verily  inspired. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Mahomet  and  his  immediate 
successors,  in  all  other  respects,  were  brutal,  re- 
Z 


290  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

morseless,  fanatical  conquerors,  ravagers,  and  ovet- 
throwers  of  nations  and  of  letters.  It  was  in  the 
reign  of  Omar,  the  third  of  this  ferocious  line,  that 
the  celebrated  Alexandrian  Library  was  condemned 
to  be  burned,  on  the  shrewd  assumption,  that  if  the 
books  were  in  consonance  with  the  Koran,  they  were 
useless  ;  and  if  contrary  to  it,  heretical.  This  has 
been  deemed  the  greatest  loss  which  learning  ever 
sustained  ;  and  certainly,  in  bulk,  if  not  in  value  ;  as 
one  single  calamity,  and  a  calamity  for  ever  irrepara- 
ble, it  was  the  greatest  that  could  even  be  imagined 
within  the  range  of  possibility.  Two  libraries,  how- 
ever, of  nearly  equal  amount  in  number  of  volumes, 
and  probably  much  more  precious  in  the  selection, 
had  been  previously  consumed  by  fire  in  the  same 
situation.  Those,  therefore,  who  take  it  for  granted 
that  if  the  third  had  been  spared  by  the  Arabs,  its 
contents  would  have  been  preserved  as  an  inherit- 
ance to  enrich  all  posterity,  may  console  them- 
selves for  its  wanton  destruction,  by  reflecting,  that 
if  two  libraries  of  the  kind,  and  on  the  spot,  guarded 
by  the  vigilance  and  jealousy  of  the  most  enlightened 
people  of  the  earth,  were  destroyed  in  the  course  of 
two  centuries  between  the  age  of  Julius  Caesar  and 
that  of  the  Antonines,  it  is  scarcely  probable  that 
this,  for  eight  hundred  years  longer,  would  have 
escaped  fire,  dispersion,  or  ruin,  by  violence,  neglect, 
or  accident,  while  Egypt  was  in  possession  of  one 
race  of  barbarian  masters  after  another. 

The  Literature  of  the  Saracens. 

The  spoilers  themselves,  in  this  instance,  ulti- 
mately made  all  the  compensation  that  w^as  in  the 
power  ©f  man  to  make  for  this  one  act  of  unexam- 
pled havoc.  The  Arabs — the  Saracens,  as  tliey  were 
afterward  called— had  scarcely  exhausted  their  first 
military  fury,  in  the  march  of  uninterrupted  conquest, 
east,   west,  north,  and  south,  tlian   thev   bcf;!;)  Ui 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  291 

appreciate  the  intrinsic  worth  of  books.  Learning 
avenged  herself  nobly  on  tiiose  lier  enemies,  by  first 
making  them  her  captives,  then  her  friends,  and 
finally  her  champions,  by  whom  she  was,  in  the 
sequel,  preserved  from  all  but  utter  annihilation  in 
those  very  lands  where  she  had  once  held  sovereign 
sway.  The  Saracens,  with  an  eagerness  of  search 
strikingly  contrasted  with  their  recklessness  of  de- 
vastation, in  this  respect,  collected,  wherever  they 
could  be  found,  copies  of  the  Greek  authors  of  the 
classic  ages,  which,  being  translated  into  their  own 
tongue,  they  made  the  text-books  of  schools  and 
colleges,  established  by  authority  in  every  country 
wherein  they  had  gained  a  settlement;  and  they 
employed  their  own  most  eminent  scholars  to  write 
commentaries  on  the  same.  Their  princes  even 
entered  into  treaties  with  the  eastern  emperors,  at 
Constantinople,  for  rare  manuscripts,  which  had 
now  become  to  them  of  the  value  of  provinces. 

In  process  of  time — ay,  within  two  centuries  from 
the  conflagration  of  the  Alexandrian  Library, — the 
works  of  Aristotle  and  other  Grecian  philosophers, 
poets,  and  historians  were  retranslated  from  the 
Arabic  versions  into  Latin,  and  the  other  languages 
of  the  west;  nay,  so  complete  was  "learning's  tri- 
umph o'er  her  barbarous  foes,"  that  through  these 
vehicles,  imperfect  as  they  must  have  been,  the  po- 
lemical schoolmen  of  the  middle  ages  derived  their 
ill-digested  learning.  It  is  lamentable  to  think  that 
so  many  of  the  latter — men  of  gigantic  intellect, — 
wasted  their  strength  for  the  most  pigmy  purposes. 
These  wandering  stars,  amid  the  night  of  ages,  shoot- 
ing singly  through  the  settled  gloom  that  hung  over 
the  whole  horizon  of  Europe,  or  occasionally  re- 
vealed in  constellations  through  rifted  clouds  that 
closed  upon  them  in  redoubled  darkness ;  these 
schoolmen,  as  they  are  still  called,  were  proofs,  that 
under  the  most  repressiuir  circumstances,  there  are, 
in  every  generation,  minds  which  cannot  be  kept 


292  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

clown;  minds  which,  by  their  native  energy  and 
buoyance,  will  struggle  into  liberty  of  thought,  and 
exercise  the  sovereigijity  of  genius  over  the  ignorant 
and  passive  multitude, — at  least,  if  they  can  find  no 
better  subjects.  From  the  Arabs  chiefly,  this  race 
of  hunters  after  quiddities  and  crudities,  of  v/ranglers 
about  straws  and  hairs,  bubbles  and  atoms,  learned 
what  they  knew  of  mathematics,  metaphysics, 
chymistry,  and  natural  philosophy,  with  such  arts 
and  sciences  as  were  then  in  repute,  though  very  de- 
fectively understood,  and  little  improved,  from  cen- 
tury to  century. 

Charlemagne  the  great,  and  our  own  Alfred,  a 
greater  than  he,  commanded  the  original  writings 
of  Arabic  authors,  as  well  as  their  versions  from  the 
Greek,  to  be  translated  into  the  vernacular  tongues 
of  their  respective  people ;  and  thus  each  of  these 
truly  great  princes  laid  the  foundation  of  the  future 
literary  fame  of  his  own  country. 

To  the  Arabs,  also,  Europe  is  indebted  for  the 
numeral  figures  and  the  invaluable  cipher,  without 
which  neither  the  mathematics,  nor  the  subhme  and 
interesting  sciences  which  depend  upon  these  for 
their  proofs  and  illustrations,  could,  by  any  other 
conceivable  means,  have  been  carried  to  their  present 
perfection.  If  he  who  invented  the  alphabet  (the 
letters  of  which  are  the  numerals  of  writing)  was  the 
greatest  intellectual  benefactor  of  his  species,  he  who 
invented  the  signs  of  the  numeration  table  (which 
are  the  alphabet  of  the  mathematics)  was  only  second 
to  him  in  the  boon  which  he  bequeathed  to  posterity. 
Every  moment  of  every  hour  of  every  day,  in  every 
country  where  letters  and  figures  are  known,  there 
are  thousands  of  individuals  exercising  the  privileges 
and  enjoying  the  benefit  of  these  two  inestimable 
inheritances.  The  discovery  of  the  golden  key  of 
numbers,  with  its  ten  wards,  which  has  unlocked  to 
us  the  starry  lieavens,  as  well  as  the  infinitesimal 
tieries  of  tilings  on  earth,  lias  lieeii  ascribed   to  ihe 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  293 

Indians ;  but  so  far  as  can  be  shown,  at  least,  those 
from  whom  we  received  it  are  entitled  in  equity  as 
well  as  gratitude,  to  that  credit  from  us. 

But  the  Saracens  not  only  excelled  their  contem- 
poraries in  arts  and  sciences,  useful  and  abstruse ; 
from  them,  more  than  from  all  the  classic  models  of 
antiquity,  modern  Europe  derived  the  character, 
materials,  and  embellishments  of  its  poetry.  The 
new-discovered  world  of  romance,  likewise,  for  the 
most  part  belongs  to  Arabia  and  the  East,  having 
been  as  little  known  in  the  ages  of  Pericles  and 
Augustus  as  were  the  unvisited  regions  beyond  the 
Ganges.  The  songs  of  troubadours,  the  tales  of 
novelists,  the  legends  of  chivalry,  were  all,  more  or 
less,  borrowed  or  imitated  from  Saracen  originals. 
The  marvellous  and  terrific  imagery  of  these  works 
of  melancholy  or  mirthful  imagination  were  equally 
of  oriental  or  African  lineage ;  and  those  features, 
wherein  they  claim  aflfinity  with  classic  prototypes, 
were  not  impressed  upon  them  from  the  originals  in 
Greek  or  Roman  song,  but  were  transmitted,  and 
transformed  by  transmission,  to  them  through  the 
enchanted  medium  of  Arabian  genius,  seizing  what- 
ever it  found  of  beauty  or  grandeur  in  the  productions 
of  taste,  and  making  all  it  seized  as  much  its  own  in 
appearance  as  though  it  were  indigenous  to  the  soil, 
whither  in  reality  it  had  been  recently  transplanted 

The  Revival  of  Literature  in  Europe. 

Giants,  dragons,  necromancers,  griffins,  and  a 
tliousand  other  antic  forms  of  men  and  animals,  that 
people  poetry  and  romance,  were  all  either  natives 
or  foundlings  of  the  East :  so  were  the  more  delicate 
progeny  of  fairies,  gnomes,  sylphs,  salamanders — 
spirits  of  the  elements  entirely  distinct  from  the 
mythological  beings  which  classic  fable  had  created 
there.  Of  fairies,  especially,  the  delight  of  child- 
hood, and,  in  their  place,  not  less  the  delight  of  age, 


204  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

renewing  in  luxurious  revery  the  feelings  of  child- 
hood :  of  fairies  it  may  be  said,  that  nothing  was 
ever  invented  by  the  M^it  of  man  so  finely  fanciful — 
so  real,  and  yet  so  aerial;  that  to  this  hour,  when 
their  existence  is  no  longer  even  a  vulgar  error,  they 
continue  to  be  so  exquisitely  marvellous,  and  withal 
so  natural,  that  they  are  the  very  population  of  the 
world  of  poetry.  Without  these  brilliant  and  awful 
creations  of  enthusiastic  sensibility — I  now  allude 
to  the  gigantic  and  terrible,  as  well  as  to  the  minute 
and  beautiful, — in  every  form  of  fear,  and  love,  and 
hope  personified,  in  warmer,  richer,  fairer  lands, 
where  mechanical  labour  is  little  known,  and  where, 
from  the  earliest  times,  traditional  lore  of  wonders 
has  been  the  literature  of  tribes,  fierce,  fiery,  and 
roving,  like  the  Arabs,  or  a  people  indolent  and 
voluptuous,  like  the  Persians;  without  these  bril- 
liant and  awful  creations  of  oriental  minds,  the 
poetry  of  modern  Europe  might  never  have  arisen 
above  mediocrity — the  freezing  point  of  imitation, 
where  all  may  be  as  splendid,  yet  as  cold  and  unsub- 
stantial, as  figured  frost-work,  or  drifted  snow,  or 
transparent  ice.  Modern  poetry,  we  may  presume, 
scarcely  could  have  risen  above  this  inanimate  me- 
diocrity, because  it  would  have  wanted  machinery — 
a  race  of  supernatural  beings  of  ethereal  origin,  to 
supply  the  vacant  thrones  of  Olympus. 

The  mythology  of  Greece  and  Rome,  in  their 
native  songs,  fills  the  mind  and  transports  the 
imagination,  but  rarely  touches  the  aflfections :  the 
divinities  of  these  highly  intellectual  people  were  as 
little  calculated  to  excite  human  sympathies  (though 
invested  with  human  passions,  and  boundless  im- 
punity in  the  indulgence  of  them)  as  their  own 
images  in  marble  and  brass  in  their  temples,  and  by 
the  public  ways.  That  kind  of  epic  machinery 
belonged  exclusively  to  the  periods  during  which  it 
was  the  religion  of  the  multitude,  and  while  k 
remained    the   secret   whereby  the  great  and  th© 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  295 

learned  held  that  multitude  at  once  in  ignorance  and 
subjection.  Hence  the  deities  of  Homer  and  Virgil 
have  never  been  introduced  with  happy  effect  into 
modern  verse  of  high  order.  There  is  not  a  popular 
heroic  poem  in  any  living  language  in  which  they 
have  been  well  employed ;  nay,  there  is  not  one  in 
which  they  have  been  employed  at  all  where  they 
are  not  an  absolute  encumbrance — not  to  say 
nuisance.  The  truth  is,  that  they  destroy  poetical 
probability  the  moment  they  appear  on  the  scene ; 
disenchanting  the  glorious  unreality,  which  the  man 
of  true  genius  makes  a  million-fold  more  real  to  the 
feelings  and  fancy  of  his  readers  than  the  most 
accurate  and  elaborate  representation  of  facts  in 
history  can  be.  There  are,  indeed,  some  lyrical 
pieces,  especially  Italian  canzoni,  and,  in  our  own 
language,  some  playful  love  songs,  and  other  trifles, 
in  which  the  divinities  of  ancient  times  are  quite  at 
home. 

But  from  "  the  highest  heaven  of  invention"  Jove 
and  his  senate  are  for  ever  and  for  ever  fallen ;  so 
that  it  would  be  as  rational,  and  about  as  easy,  to 
rebuild  their  temples,  and  restore  their  worship,  as 
to  reinstate  them  in  the  honours  and  immortality 
which  they  once  enjoyed  on  Parnassus,  and  which, 
as  their  only  immortality,  they  will  possess  so  long 
as  the  literary  relics  of  Greece  and  Rome  are  studied 
and  admired.  On  the  other  hand,  the  oriental 
mythology,  if  1  may  so  style  it,  as  soon  as  the 
revival  of  letters  in  the  south  of  Europe  revived  the 
most  elegant  of  all  the  forms  which  letters  can 
assume, — Poetry,  which  is  the  language  of  the 
noblest  minds,  and  itself  most  noble  v/hen  most 
intelligible, — the  oriental  mythology  at  once  sup- 
plied a  machinery,  gloomy,  splendid,  gay,  and  terri- 
ble, for  every  occasion,  as  the  one  or  the  other  might 
be  wanted.  The  poems  of  modern  date  (those  I 
mean  which  have  outlived  their  century)  most  cele- 
brated, and  which  will  be  longest  remembered,  owe 


296  A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE. 

half  their  inspiration,  and  more  than  half  their  popii- 
larity,  to  its  influence.  For  examples  we  need  but 
recollect  the  "  Orlando  Furioso"  of  Ariosto,  the 
"  Gerusalemme  Liberata"  of  Tasso,  the  "Faerie 
Queene"  of  Spenser,  and,  to  crown  all,  the  "  Tem- 
pest" and  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  of  Shaks- 
peare.     But  these  belong  to  a  later  period.  ^ 

Of  the  literature  of  the  middle  ages  it  may 
generally  be  said  that  it  was  "  voluminous  and 
vast."  Princes,  nobles,  and  even  priests  then  were 
often  ignorant  of  the  alphabet.  The  number  of 
authors  was  proportionally  small,  and  the  subjects 
on  which  they  wrote  were  of  the  driest  nature  in 
polemics — such  were  the  subtleties  of  the  school- 
men ;  of  the  most  extravagant  character  in  the  paths 
of  imagination — such  were  the  romances  of  chivalry, 
the  legends  and  songs  of  troubadours ;  and  of  the 
most  preposterous  tendency  in  philosophy,  so  called, 
— such  were  the  treatises  on  magic,  alchy my,  judicial 
astrology,  and  the  metaphysics.  To  say  all  that  could 
be  said  on  any  theme,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  was 
the  fashion  of  the  times  ;  and,  as  few  read  but  those 
who  were  devoted  to  reading  by  an  irresistible  pas- 
sion or  professional  necessity,  and  few  v/rote  but 
those  who  were  equally  impelled  by  an  inveterate 
instinct, — great  books  were  the  natural  produce  of 
the  latter,  who  knew  not  how  to  make  little  ones ; 
and  great  books  were  requisite  to  appease  the 
voracity  of  the  former,  who,  for  the  most  part,  were 
rather  gluttons  than  epicures  in  their  taste  for  litera- 
ture. Great  books,  therefore,  were  both  the  fruits 
and  the  proofs  of  the  ignorance  of  the  age :  they 
were  usually  composed  in  the  gloom  and  torpor  of 
the  cloister,  and  it  almost  required  a  human  life  to 
read  the  works  of  an  author  of  the  first  magnitude, 
because  it  was  nearly  as  easy  to  compound  as  to 
digest  such  crudities.  The  common  people,  under 
such  circumstances,  could  feel  no  interest  and  derive 
no  advantage  from  the  labours  of  the  learned,  which 


A    RETROSPECT    OF    LITERATURE.  297 

were  equally  beyond  their  purchase  and  their  com 
prehension.  Those  libri  elcphantini  (like  the  regis- 
ters of  the  Roman  citizens,  when  the  latter  amounted 
to  millions)  contained  little  more  than  catalogues  of 
things,  and  thoughts,  and  names,  in  words  without 
measure,  and  often  without  meaning  worth  search- 
ing out ;  so  that  the  lucubrations,  through  a  thousand 
years,  of  many  a  noble,  many  a  lovely  mind,  which 
only  wanted  better  direction  how  to  unfold  its  ener- 
gies, or  display  its  graces,  to  benefit  or  delight  man- 
kind, were  but  passing  meteors,  that  made  visible  the 
darkness  out  of  which  they  rose,  and  into  which  they 
sank  again,  to  be  hid  for  ever. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  while  the  classic  regions  of 
Europe,  as  well  as  the  northern  and  western  colonies 
of  the  dissolved  Roman  empire,  were  buried  in  bar- 
barian ignorance,  learning  found  a  temporary  refuge 
in  some  of  the  least  distinguished  parts  of  the  then 
known  world — in  Sweden,  Denmark,  Iceland,  Scot- 
land, and  even  in.  Ireland. 

And  here  these  papers  must  conclude,  having 
brought  our  cursory  retrospect  to  the  thirteenth 
century,  an  era  at  which  the  minds  of  the  people  of 
Europe  were  already  prepared  (though  scarcely  con- 
scious of  the  turn  in  their  favour)  for  those  great  and 
glorious  discoveries  in  literature  and  philosophy, 
which — since  the  adoption  of  the  mariner's  compass 
and  the  invention  of  printing,  introducing  liberty  of 
thought  and,  as  a  necessary  consequence  of  the 
latter,  freedom  of  speech  have  made  way  for  the 
diffusion  of  knowledge,  revealing  new  arts  and  sci- 
ences, and  calling  up  old  ones  from  the  dead  in  more 
perfect  forms 


A  VIEW 

OF 

MODERN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


No.  I. 

English  Literature  under  the  Tudors  and  the  first 
Stuarts. 

The  discovery  of  the  mariner's  compass,  the  invert 
won  of  printing,  the  revival  of  classic  learning,  th« 
Reformation,  with  all  the  great  moral,  commercial, 
political,  and  intellectual  consequences  of  these  new 
means,  materials,  and  motives  for  action  and  thought, 
produced  corresponding  effects  upon  literature  and 
science.  With  the  progress  of  the  former  alone,  in 
our  own  country,  have  we  to  do  at  present. 

From  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  the  protectorate  of 
Cromwell,  inclusively,  there  rose  in  phalanx,  and 
continued  in  succession,  minds  of  all  orders,  and 
hands  for  all  work,  in  poetry,  philosophy,  history, 
and  theology,  which  have  bequeathed  to  posterity 
such  treasures  of  what  may  be  called  genuine  English 
literature,  that  whatever  may  be  the  transmigrations 
of  taste,  the  revolutions  of  style,  and  the  fashions 
in  popular  reading,  these  will  ever  be  the  sterling 
standards.  The  translation  of  the  Scriptures,  settled 
by  authority,  and  wliich,  for  reasons  that  need  not 
be  discussed  here,  can  never  be  materially  changed, 
— consequently  can  never  become  obsolete, — has 
secured  perpetuity  to    the    youth    of  the   English 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  299 

tonf^ue :  and  whatever  may  befall  the  works  of 
writers  in  it  from  other  causes,  they  are  not  likely 
to  be  antiquated  in  the  degree  that  has  been  foretold 
by  one  whose  own  imperishable  strains  would  for 
centuries  have  delayed  the  fulfilment  of  his  disheart 
ening  prophecy,  even  if  it  were  to  be  fulfilled : — 

*  Our  sons  their  fathers'  failing  language  see. 
And  such  as  Chaucer  is  shall  Dryden  be.^ 

Pope. 

Now  it  is  clear,  that  unless  the  language  be  im 
proved  or  deteriorated  far  beyond  any  thing  that  can 
be  anticipated  from  the  slight  variations  which  have 
taken  place  within  the  last  two  hundred  years,  com- 
pared with  the  two  hundred  years  preceding,  Dryden 
cannot  become  what  Chaucer  is;  especially  since 
there  seems  to  be  a  necessity  laid  upon  all  genera- 
tions of  Englishmen  to  understand,  as  the  fathers  of 
their  mother-tongue,  the  great  authors  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth,  James  I.,  and  Charles  I. :  from  Spenser 
(though  much  of  his  poetry  is  wilfully  obscured  by 
affected  phraseology)  and  Shakspeare  (the  idolatry 
to  whose  name  will  surely  never  permit  its  divinity 
to  die)  to  Milton,  whose  style  cannot  fall  into  decay 
while  there  is  talent  or  sensibiUty  among  his  coun- 
trymen to  appreciate  his  writings.  It  may  be  con- 
fidently inferred,  that  the  English  language  will 
remain  subject  to  as  little  mutation  as  the  Italian  has 
been  since  works  of  enduring  excellence  were  first 
produced  in  it;  the  prose  of  Boccaccio  and  the 
verse  of  Dante,  so  far  as  dialect  is  concerned,  are 
as  well  understood  by  the  common  people  of  their 
country,  at  this  day,  as  the  writings  of  Chaucer  and 
Gower  are  by  the  learned  in  ours. 

Had  no  works  of  transcendent  originality  been 
produced  within  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years,  it 
may  be  imagined  that  such  fluctuations  might  h^ive 


300  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITEKATURE. 

occurred  as  would  have  rendered  our  language  as  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  ivas  when  Milton  nourished,  as  it 
then  was  from  what  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  Chau- 
cer; with  this  reverse,  that,  during  the  latter  it  must 
have  degenerated  as  much  as  it  had  been  refined 
during  the  earlier  interval.  But  the  standard  of  our 
tongue  having  been  fixed  at  an  era  when  it  was  rich 
in  native  idioms,  full  of  pristine  vigour,  and  pliable 
almost  as  sound  articulate  can  be  to  sense, — and 
that  standard  having  been  fixed  in  poetry,  the  most 
permanent  and  perfect  of  all  forms  of  literature — as 
well  as  in  the  version  of  the  Scriptures  which  are 
necessarily  the  most  popular  species  of  reading, — 
no  very  considerable  changes  can  be  effected,  except 
Britain  were  again  exposed  to  invasion  as  it  was 
wont  to  be  of  old ;  and  the  modern  Saxons  or  Nor- 
wegians were  thus  to  subvert  both  our  government 
and  our  language,  and  either  utterly  extinguish  the 
latter,  or  assimilate  it  with  their  own. 

Contemporary  with  Milton,  though  his  junior,  and 
belonging  to  a  subsequent  era  of  literature,  of  which 
he  became  the  great  luminary  and  master-spirit,  was 
Dryden.  His  prose  (not  less  admirable  than  his 
verse)  in  its  structure  and  cadence,  in  compass  of 
expression,  and  general  freedom  from  cumbersome 
pomp,  pedantic  restraint,-  and  vicious  quaintness, 
which  more  or  less  characterized  his  predecessors, 
became  the  favourite  model  in  that  species  of  com- 
position, which  was  happily  followed  and  highly 
improved  by  Addison,  Johnson,  and  other  periodical 
writers  of  the  last  century.  These,  to  whom  must 
be  added  the  triumvirate  of  British  historians,  Hume, 
Robertson,  and  Gibbon,  who  exemplified,  in  their 
very  dissimilar  styles,  the  triple  contrast  and  har- 
mony of  simplicity,  elegance,  and  splendour, — these 
illus-trious  names  in  prose  are  so  many  pledges,  that 
the  language  in  which  they  immortalized  their 
thoughts  is  itself  immortalized  by  being  made  the 


MODRRN    KNGLISH    LITERA.TURK.  301 

vehicle  of  these,  and  can  never  become  barbarian 
like  Chaucer's  uncouth,  ru£?ged,  incongruous  medley 
of  sounds,  which  are  as  remote  from  the  strength, 
volubility,  and  precision  of  those  employed  by  hi  ^• 
polished  successors,  as  the  imperfect  lispings  oi 
infancy  before  it  has  learned  to  pronounce  half  the 
alphabet,  and  imitates  the  letters  which  it  cannot 
pronounce  with  those  which  it  can,  are  to  the  clear, 
and  round,  and  eloquent  intonations  of  youth,  when 
the  voice  and  the  ear  are  perfectly  formed  and 
attuned  to  each  other. 

English  Literature  from  the  Restoration  to  the  Reign 
of  George  the  Third. 

From  the  Restoration  in  1660  to  the  time  when 
Cowper  had  risen  into  full  fame  in  1790,  may  be 
dated  the  second  grand  era  of  modern  English  lite- 
rature, reckoning  from  Elizabeth  to  the  close  of 
Cromwell's  protectorate,  alread}^  mentioned  as  the 
first.  The  early  part  of  this  period  (the  reigns  of 
Charles  II.  and  James  II.)  was  distinguished  for 
works  of  wit  and  profligacy  ;  the  drama  in  particular 
was  pre-eminent  for  the  genius  that  adorned  and  the 
abominations  that  disgraced  its  scenes.  The  middle 
portions  of  the  same  period,  from  the  revolution  of 
1688  to  the  close  of  the  reign  of  George  II.,  was 
rather  the  age  of  reason  than  of  passion,  of  fine 
fancy  than  adventurous  imagination  in  the  belles 
lettres  generally.  Pope,  as  the  follower  of  Dryden 
in  verse,  excelled  him  as  much  in  grace  and  har- 
mony of  numbers  as  he  might  be  deemed  to  fall 
below  him  in  raciness  and  pithy  originality. 

In  like  manner  he  imitated  Horace  in  Latin,  and 
tJoileauin  French,  rivalling,  perhaps  equalling  either 
in  his  peculiar  line,  and  excelling  both,  by  combining 
the  excellences  of  each  in  his  own  unique,  compact, 
consummate  style.     It  is  to  be  remarked,  however. 


302  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

that  though  Pope  gave  the  tone,  character,  and 
fashion  to  the  verse  of  his  day,  as  decidedly  as  Ad- 
dison had  given  to  the  prose,  yet  of  all  his  imitators 
not  one  has  maintained  the  rank  of  even  a  second- 
rate  author;  the  greatest  names  among  his  contem- 
poraries, Thomson  and  Young,  being  those  who  dif- 
fered most  from  him  in  manner,  subject,  and  taste,— 
especially  in  those  of  their  works  which  promise  to 
last  as  long  as  his  own. 

Between  Pope  and  Cowper  we  have  the  names  of 
Collins,  Gray,  Goldsmith,  and  Churchill.  Of  these, 
the  two  former  have  nothing  in  common  with  Pope, 
but  they  produced  too  little,  and  were  too  great  man- 
nerists themselves  to  be  the  fathers,  in  either  line, 
of  a  school  of  mannerists :  it  is  only  when  mannerism 
is  connected  with  genius  of  the  proudest  order  or 
the  most  prolific  species  that  it  becomes  extensively 
infectious  among  minor  minds.  As  for  Goldsmith 
and  Churchill,  whatever  they  appear  to  have  owed 
to  Pope  they  are  remembered  and  admired  for  what 
they  possessed  independent  of  him,  each  having 
wealth  enough  of  his  own  to  be  a  freeholder  of  Par- 
nassus, after  paying  off  any  mortgage  on  his  little 
estate  due  to  that  enormous  capitalist. 

The  greater  stress  has  been  laid  upon  the  utter 
mortality  among  the  numberless  imitators  of 
Pope,  because  it  exemplifies  the  impossibility  of 
any  imitator  ever  being  a  great  poet,  however  great 
his  model,  and  however  exquisite  his  copying  may 
be.  Nothing  in  the  English  language  can  be  more 
perfect  than  the  terseness,  elegance,  and  condensa- 
tion of  Pope's  sentiments,  diction,  and  rhyme.  Of 
course  the  successful  imitation  of  these  m.ight  be 
expected  to  prove  an  infallible  passport  to  renown, 
because  such  a  style  involves  the  happiest  union  of 
diverse  requisites,  and  its  charm  consists  far  less  in 
any  one  peculiarity  (as  is  the  case  of  other  eminent 
bards)  than  m   the  perfection  of   those  principles 


MODERN     ENGLISH     LITERATURE.  30.3 

which  are  common  to  all  poetic  composition ;  yet 
in  our  day,  there  has  been  an  example  of  this  suc- 
cessful imitation  which  in  every  other  respect  has 
been  a  total  failure.  The  Paradise  of  Coquettes, 
published  a  few  years  ago,  was  a  work  of  much  taste 
and  genuine  talent  in  its  mechanical  construction,  as 
well  as  in  the  playful,  delicate,  pungent  satire  with 
which  it  abounded  ;  yet  this  piece,  worthy  of  the 
highest  admiration  in  its  way,  though  elaborately 
criticised  and  profusely  commended  in  the  reviews, 
never  shone  beyond  their  precincts,  and  was  scarcely 
read  except  in  quotations  or  in  their  pages.  This 
miscarriage  afforded  also  an  encouraging  proof  to 
ill-treated  authors,  or  authors  who  imagine  them- 
selves ill-treated, — that  permanent  fame  depends  not 
upon  contemporary  criticism  ;  for  whatever  reviews 
may  effect  in  advancing  or  retarding  the  hopes  of  a 
candidate  under  their  examination,  final  success 
depends  upon  a  tribunal  whose  decision  they  cannot 
always,  with  their  keenest  sagatity,  anticipate. 

English  Literature  of  the  present  age. 

With  the  exceptions  already  named,"  there  was  not 
a  poet  between  Pope  and  Cowper  who  had  power 
to  command  in  any  enviable  degree,  or  even  for  a 
little  while,  that  popular  breath  of  applause  which 
the  aspirant  after  immortality  inhales  as  the  prelude 
of  it.  Verse,  indeed,  was  so  low  in  pubhc  estima- 
tion, and  so  little  read,  that  few  of  the  fugitive  pieces 
of  the  hmir,  on  their  passage  to  oblivion,  attracted 
sufficient  notice  to  defray  the  expenses  of  their  jour- 
ney thither.  Cowper's  first  volume,  partly  from  the 
grave  character  of  the  longer  pieces  and  the  pur- 
posely rugged,  rambling,  slip-shod  versification,  was 
long  neglected,  till  The  Task,  the  noblest  effort  of 
his  muse,  composed  under  tlie  inspiration  of  cheer- 
fulness, hope,  and  love,  unbosoming  the  whole  soul 
of  his  afiections,  intellisience.  and   i)itty,r-— at  once 


304  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

made  our  countrymen  feel  that  neither  the  genius 
of  poesy  had  fled  from  our  isle,  nor  had  the  heart 
for  it  died  in  the  breasts  of  its  inhabitants.  The 
Task  was  the  first  long  poem  from  the  close  of 
Churchill's  brilliant  but  evanescent  career,  that 
awoke  wonder,  sympathy,  and  delight  by  its  own 
ineffable  excellence  among  the  reading  people  of 
England. 

"  The  happy  miracle  of  that  rare  birth, 

(Habington's  Halcyon.) 

could  not  fail  to  quicken  many  a  drooping  mind, 
which,  without  such  a  present  evidence  both  of 
genuine  song  and  the  genuine  effects  of  song  amid 
the  previous  apathy  to  this  species  of  literature, 
would  hardly  have  ventured  to  brood  over  its  own 
conceptions  in  sohtude  and  obscurity,  till  they  too 
were  warmed  into  life,  uttered  voices,  put  forth 
wings,  and  took  their  flight  up  to  the  "  highest  heaven 
of  invention.'' 

From  Cowpermay  be  deduced  the  commencement 
of  the  third  great  era  of  modern  English  literature, 
since  it  was  in  no  small  measure  to  the  inspiration 
of  his  Task  that  our  countrymen  are  indebted,  if  nat 
for  the  existence,  yet  certainly  for  the  character,  of 
the  new  school  of  poetry,  estabhshed  first  at  Bristol, 
and  afterward  transferred  to  the  Lakes,  as  scenery 
more  congenial  and  undisturbed  for  the  exercise  of 
contemplative  genius.  Southey,  Coleridge,  and 
Wordsworth  started  almost  contemporaneously  in 
the  same  path  to  fame, — a  new  one,  indeed,  un- 
trodden and  entangled  with  thorns  or  obstructed  with 
stones,  yet  in  many  parts  fertile  and  wildly  diversi- 
fied ;  blooming  with  all  the  beauty,  and  breathing 
with  all  the  fragrance,  of  the  ricliest  and  most  cul- 
tivated enclosures  of  the  Muses.  The  minds  and  the 
feelings,  tli(^  passions  and  prejudices  of  men  of  all 
ranks  and  attainiiu  iits,  (Voin  tjic  liinhfyt  to  the  low- 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  305 

est,  were  at  that  time  roused  and  interested  by  the 
fair  and  promising,  the  terrific  and  stupendous  eVents 
of  the  French  Revolution ;  and  the  excitement  of 
this  portentous  phenomenon  in  the  state  of  Europe 
prepared  this  nation  especially  (from  the  freedom 
with  which  all  questions  might  be  discussed)  forthat 
peculiar  cast  of  subjects  and  of  style,  both  in  verse 
and  prose,  for  which  the  present  period  is  distin- 
guished from  every  former  one. 

The  first  era  of  our  modern  literature,  already  de- 
fined as  extending  from  Elizabeth  to  the  close  of  the 
protectorate,  was  that  of  nature  and  romance  com- 
bined :  it  might  be  compared  to  an  illimitable  region 
of  mountains,  rocks,  forests,  and  rivers — the  fairy 
land  of  heroic  adventure,  in  which  giants,  enchant- 
ers, and  genii,  aS  well  as  knights-errant,  and  wander- 
ing damsels  guarded  by  lions,  or  assailed  by  fiery 
flying  dragons,  were  the  native  and  heterogeneous 
population ;  where  every  building  was  a  castle  or  a 
palace,  an  Arcadian  cottage  or  a  hermitage  in  the 
wilderness. 

The  second  era,  from  Dryden  to  Cowper,  bore  a 
nearer  resemblance  to  a  nobleman's  domain,  sur- 
rounding his  family  mansion,  wliere  all  was  taste, 
and  elegance,  and  splendour  within  ;  painting,  sculp- 
ture, and  literature  forming  its  proudest  embellish- 
ments— while,  without,  the  eye  ranged  with  volup- 
tuous freedom  over  the  paradise  of  the  park,  woods, 
waters,  lawns,  temples,  statues,  obelisks,  and  points 
of  perspective  so  cunningly  contrived  as  to  startle 
the'  beholder  with  unexpected  delight ;  nature  and 
art  having  changed  characters,  and  each,  in  mas- 
querade of  the  other,  playing  at  hide-and-seek  amid 
the  self-involving  labyrinths  of  landscape  gardening. 

At  length,  when  both  the  eye  and  the  heart  had 
been  wearied  for  more  than  a  century  with  the  golden 
mediocrity  of  these,  in  which  notliing  was  so  awful 
as  deeply  to  agitate,  nor  so  familiar  as  tenderly  to 
interest,  the  Bristol  youtiis  alremlv  niuiiod  bi)U\lv 
A  <, 


306  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

broke  through  the  restraint,  and  hazarded  a  new  style, 
in  which  simplicity,  homeliness,  common  names, 
every-day  objects,  and  ordinary  events  were  made 
the  themes  and  the  ornaments  of  poetry.  These 
naturally  assimilate  themselves  with  what  is  em- 
phatically called  "  the  country" — "  each  rural  sight, 
each  rural  sound  ;"  the  loves  and  graces  of  domestic 
life,  the  comforts  of  our  own  fireside  ;  the  flowery 
array  of  meadows,  the  green  gayety  of  hedge-rows, 
the  sparkling  vivacity  of  rivulets ;  kind  intercourse 
with  neighbours,  the  generous  ardour  of  patriotism, 
and  the  gentler  emotions  of  benevolence.  Such 
furnished  the  "  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets" 
set  before  their  readers  by  those  innovators  on  the 
courtly  formality  of  the  old  school ;  but  the  charm 
of  their  song  was  too  often  interrupter  by  the  coarse- 
ness of  vulgar  manners  and  the  squalidness  of  pov- 
erty— too  nearly  associated  with  physical  disgusts 
to  be  the  unpolluted  source  of  ideal  delights. 

This,  therefore,  could  not  last  long;  the  subjects 
which  might  be  rendered  interesting  were  soon  ex- 
hausted. Hence  this  ramble  after  Nature  in  her 
humblest  forms  and  her  obscurest  haunts  was  only 
a  holyday  frolic  ;  and  these  wayward  sons  of  genius, 
by  their  high  endowments,  were  destined  to  give  a 
more  heroic  tone,  a  more  magnificent  character,  lo 
the  literature  of  their  country.  Southey,  by  his 
marvellous  excursions  in  the  regions  both  of  history 
and  romance — Coleridge,  by  his  wild  fictions  of  a 
class  entirely  his  own,  in  which  there  is  an  indescri- 
bable witchery  of  phrase  and  conceit,  that  aff"ects 
the  imagination  as  if  one  had  eaten  of  "  the  insane 
root  that  takes  the  reason  prisoner" — and  Words- 
worth, by  his  mysticism,  his  Platonic  love  of  the 
supreme  good  and  the  supreme  beauty,  which  he 
seeks  everywhere,  and  finds  wherever  he  seeks,  in 
tlie  dancing  of  daffodils,  the  splendour  of  the  settmg 
sun,  the  note  of  a  cuckoo  flitting  like  a  spirit  from 
hill  to  hill,  which  neither  the  eye  nor  ear  can  roUow, 


MODERN    KNGLISH    LITERATURE.  307 

and  in  the  everlasting-  silence  of  the  universe  to  the 
man  born  deaf  and  dumb — these  were  the  tluee  pio- 
neers, if  not  the  absolute  founders,  of  the  existing 
style  of  English  literature ;  which  has  become  so 
diversified,  artificial,  and  exquisite — so  gorgeously 
embellished,  and  adapted  to  every  taste,  as  well  as 
so  abundant  in  its  resources  by  importations  from 
the  wealth  of  every  other  land,  that  it  may  challenge 
similitude  to  the  great  metropohs  of  our  empire, 
where  the  brain  of  a  stranger,  like  myself,  is  bewil- 
dered amid  the  infinite  forms  of  human  beings,  hu- 
man dwellings,  human  pursuits,  human  enjoyments, 
and  human  sufferings  ;  perpetual  motion,  perpetual 
excitement,  perpetual  novelty ;  city  manners,  city 
edifices,  city  luxuries  :  ail  these  being  not  less  strik- 
ingly characteristic  of  the  literature  of  this  age  than 
the  fairy-land  of  adventure,  and  the  landscape  gar- 
dening of  "  Capability  Brown"  were  characteristic 
of  the  two  periods  from  Spenser  to  Milton,  and  from 
Dryden  to  Cowper. 

If  the  literature  of  the  middle  ages  (as  was  shown 
in  a  former  paper*)  were  principally  composed  of 
crude,  enormous,  indigestible  masses,  fitted  only  to 
monkish  appetites,  that  could  gorge  iron  like  os- 
triches, when  iron  was  cast  into  the  shape  of  thought, 
or  thought  assumed  the  nature  of  iron  ;  the  litera- 
ture of  the  present  day  is  entirely  the  reverse,  and 
so  dre  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  it. 
Then  there  were  few  readers,  and  fewer  writers  ; 
now  there  are  many  of  both ;  and  among  those  that 
really  deserve  the  name  of  the  former,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  ascertain  the  relative  proportion  of  the 
latter,  for  most  of  them  in  one  way  or  another  might 
be  classed  with  writers.  The  vehicles,  opportuni- 
ties, and  temptations  of  publishing  are  so  frequent, 
BO  easy  and  unexpenslve,  that  a  man  can  scarcely 
')e  connected  with  intelligent  society,  without  being 

*  Soe  the  Third  Part  of  '■■  A  Retrospect  of  Literature  "  &c 


308  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

seduced,  in  some  frail  moment,  to  try  how  his 
thoughts  will  look  in  print :  then,  for  a  second  or 
two  or  least,  he  feels  as  the  greatest  genius  in  the 
world  feels  on  the  same  occasion,  "  laudum  immensa 
cupido,''^  a  longing  after  immortality  that  mounts  into 
a  hope — a  hope  that  becomes  a  conviction  of  the 
power  of  realizing  itself  in  all  the  glory  of  ideal 
reality  ;  than  which  no  actual  reality  ever  afterward 
is  half  so  enchantingly  enjoyed. 

Hence  the  literature  of  our  time  is  commensurate 
with  the  universality  of  education  ;  nor  is  it  less  va- 
rious than  universal  to  meet  capacities  of  all  sizes, 
minds  of  all  acquirements,  and  tastes  of  every  de- 
gree. Books  are  multiplied  on  every  subject  on 
which  any  thing  or  nothing  can  be  said,  from  the 
most  abstruse  and  recondite  to  the  most  simple  and 
puerile  :  and  while  the  passion  of  book-jobbers  is  to 
make  the  former  as  familiar  as  the  latter  by  royal 
ways  to  all  the  sciences,  there  is  an  equally  perverse 
rage  among  genuine  authors  to  make  the  latter  as 
august  and  imposing  as  the  former,  by  disguising 
commonplace  topics  wuth  the  colouring  of  imagina- 
tion, and  adorning  the  most  insignificant  themes 
with  all  the  pomp  of  verse.  This  degradation  of 
the  high,  and  exaltation  of  the  low — this  dislocation, 
in  fact,  of  every  thing,  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
proofs  of  the  extraordinary  diffusion  of  knowledge 
— and  of  its  corruption,  too — if  not  a  symptom  of 
its  declension  by  being  so  heterogeneously  blended, 
till  all  shall  be  neutralized.  Indeed,  when  millions 
of  intellects,  of  as  many  different  dimensions  and  as 
many  different  degrees  of  culture,  are  perpetually 
at  work,  and  it  is  almost  as  easy  to  speak  as  to 
think,  and  to  write  as  to  speak,  there  must  be  a  pro- 
portionate quantity  of  thought  put  into  circulation. 

Meanwhile,  public  taste,  pampered  with  delicacies 
even  to  loathing,  and  stimulated  to  stupidity  with 
excessive  excitement,  is  at  once  ravenous  and 
mawkisli — gratified  with  nothing  but   novelty,  'loi 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  309 

with  novelty  itself  for  more  than  an  hour.  To  meet 
his  diseased  appetite,  in  prose  not  less  than  in  verse, 
a  factitious  kind  of  the  marvellous  has  been  invented, 
consisting,  not  in  the  exhibition  of  supernatural  in- 
cidents or  heroes,  but  in  such  distortion,  high  colour- 
ing, and  exaggeration  of  natural  incidents  and  ordi- 
nary personages,  by  the  artifices  of  style,  and  the 
audacity  of  sentiment  employed  upon  them,  as  shall 
produce  that  sensation  of  wonder  in  which  half- 
instructed  minds  delight.  This  preposterous  effort 
at  display  may  be  traced  through  every  walk  of 
polite  literature,  and  in  every  channel  of  publica- 
tion ;  nay,  it  would  hardly  be  venturing  too  far  to 
say  that  every  popular  author  is  occasionally  a  jug- 
gler, rope-dancer,  or  posture-maker,  in  this  way,  to 
propitiate  those  of  his  readers  who  will  be  pleased 
with  nothing  less  than  feats  of  legerdemain  in  the 
exercises  of  the  pen. 


No.  II. 

Contemporary  Poets, 


It  must  be  conceded  that  there  never  was  a  time 
when  so  great  a  number  of  men  of  extraordinary 
genius  flourished  together  in  this  island  ;  as  many 
may  have  existed,  and  perhaps  there  may  be  always 
an  equal  quantity  of  latent  capacity ;  but  since  the 
circumstances  of  no  previous  period  of  human  his- 
tory have  been  altogether  so  calculated  to  awaken, 
inspirit,  and  perfect  every  species  of  intellectual  en« 
ergy,  it  is  no  arrogant  assumption  in  favour  of  the 
living,  no  disparagement  of  the  merits  of  the  dead, 
to  assert  the  manifest  superiority  of  the  former  in 
developed  powers — powers  of  the  rarest  and  most 


310  MODERN    KNGLISn    LITERATURE. 

elevated  kind  in  poetry — the  noblest  of  the  arts,  and 
that  which  is  brought  earliest  to  the  consiunmation 
of  excellence,  as  it  depends  not  upon  the  progress 
of  science,  but  on  sensibility  to  that  which  is  at  ail 
times  in  itself  equally  striking  in  the  grandeur, 
beauty,  and  splendour  of  external  nature,  with  cor- 
responding intensity  of  feeling  towards  whatsoever 
things  are  pure,  lovely,  and  of  good  report  in  the 
mind  of  man,  or  in  the  scenes  and  circumstances  of 
domestic  life. 

In  poetry,  late  as  it  is  in  the  age  of  the  world,  and 
after  all  the  anticipations  in  every  field  that  could 
furnish  subjects  for  verse  withni  the  last  three  thou- 
sand years,  the  present  generation  can  boast  of  at 
least  six  names  that  may  be  ranked  with  any 
other  six  (averaging  the  measure  of  genius  on  both 
sides)  not  only  of  our  own  country,  but  of  any  other 
that  were  contemporaries,  independent  of  a  far 
greater  number  of  highly  accomplished  writers,  such 
as  in  every  refined  and  lettered  period  must  abound 
• — men  who  are  rather  poets  by  choice  than  by  des- 
tiny, and  who,  if  they  had  been  either  kings  or  beg- 
gars, would  not  have  been  poets  at  all ;  because  in 
the  one  case  they  would  have  been  above,  and  in  the 
other  below,  the  temptation  and  pleasure  of  court- 
ing the  Muses.  Southey,  Campbell,  Wordsworth, 
Scott,  Moore,  and  Byron — these,  under  any  circum- 
stances, from  the  original  bias  of  their  minds,  must 
have  been  poets :  had  they  been  born  to  thrones, 
they  would  have  v/oven  for  themselves  chaplets  of 
bays  more  glorious  than  the  crowns  which  they  in- 
herited ;  had  thej^  been  cast  in  the  meanest  stations 
of  civilized  society,  they  would  have  been  distin- 
guished among  their  peers,  and  above  them,  by  some 
emanation  of  that  "  light  from  heaven"  which  no 
darkness  of  ignorance  in  untutored  minds  could 
utterly  extinguish  or  always  hide. 

It  must  be  further  acknowledged  by  all  who  have 
justly  appreciated  the  works  of  these  authors  (which 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  311 

are  exceedinj,dy  dissimilar  in  those  respects  wherein 
each  is  most  excellent),  that  the  g-reat  national  events 
of  their  day  have  had  no  small  influence  In  training 
their  genius,  leading  them  to  the  choice  of  subjects, 
and  modifying  their  style.  So  far,  then,  these  cir- 
cumstances have  been  sources  of  inspiration ;  but 
there  is  a  drawback  with  regard  to  each,  that,  yield- 
ing to  the  impatient  temper  of  the  times  in  their 
eager  pursuit  of  fame,  they  have  occasionally  aimed 
at  the  temple  on  the  mountain-top,  not  by  the  slow, 
painful,  and  laborious  paths  which  their  immortal 
predecessors  trod,  and  which  all  must  tread  who 
would  be  sure  of  gaining  the  eminence,  and  keeping 
their  station  when  they  have  gained  it, — but  they 
have  rather  striven  to  scale  the  heights  by  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock  up  the  most  precipitous  side,  for- 
cing their  passage  through  the  impenetrable  forests 
that  engirdle  it,  or  plunging  across  the  headlong  tor- 
rents that  descend  in  various  v/indings  from  their 
fountains  at  the  peak.  Thus  they  have  endeavoured 
to  attract  attention  and  excite  astonishment,  rather 
by  prodigious  acts  of  spontaneous  exertion,  than  to 
display  gradually,  and  eventually  to  the  utmost  ad- 
vantage, the  well  directed  and  perfectly  concentrated 
force  of  their  talents.  In  a  word,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  one  of  the  living  five  (for  Byron  is  now  be- 
yond the  reach  of  warning)  has  ever  yet  done  his 
very  best  in  a  single  effort  worthy  of  himself  (I  mean 
in  their  longer  works),  by  sacrificing  all  his  merely 
good,  middling,  and  inferior  thoughts,  which  he  has 
in  common  with  everybody  else,  and  appearing 
solely  in  his  peculiar  character, — that  character  of 
excellence,  whatever  it  may  be,  wherein  he  is  dis- 
tinct from  all  the  living  and  all  the  dead ;  the  per- 
sonal identity  of  his  genius  shining  only  where  he 
can  outshine  all  riv.ds,  or  where  he  can  shine  alone 
when  rivalry  is  excluded.  Till  each  of  the  survivors 
has  done  this,  it  can  hardly  be  affirmed  that  he  has 
secured  the  imniortalitv  of  one  of  his  great  intel- 


312  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

lectual  offspring- :  there  is  a  vulnerable  part  of  each, 
which  Death  with  his  dart,  or  Time  with  his  scythe, 
may  sooner  or  later  strike  down  to  oblivion.* 

The  unprecedented  sale  of  the  poetical  works  of 
Scott  and  Byron,  with  the  moderate  success  of  others, 
proves  that  a  great  change  had  taken  place  both  in 
the  character  of  authors  and  in  the  taste  of  readers, 
within  forty  years.  About  the  beginning  of  the 
French  revolution  scarcely  any  thing  in  rhyme,  ex- 
cept the  ludicrous  eccentricities  of  Peter  Pindar, 
v/ould  take  with  the  public  :  a  few  years  afterward, 
booksellers  ventured  to  speculate  in  quarto  volumes 
of  verse,  at  from  five  shillings  to  a  guinea  a  line,  and 
in  various  instances  were  abundantly  recompensed 
for  their  liberality.  There  are  fifty  living  poets 
(among  whom  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  that  not  a 
few  are  of  the  better  sex — I  may  single  out  four ; 
Miss.  Joanna  Baillie,  Mrs.  Hemans,  Miss  Mitford,  and 
L.  E.L.)  whose  labours  have  proved  profitable  to 
themselves  in  a  pecuniary  way,  and  fame  in  propor- 
tion has  followed-the  more  substantial  reward.  This 
may  appear  a  degrading  standard  by  which  to  mea- 
sure the  genius  of  writers  and  the  intelligence  of 
readers,  but,  in  a  commercial  country  at  least,  it  is 
an  equitable  one  ;  for  no  man  in  his  right  mind  can 
suppose  that  such  a  rise  in  the  market  demand  could 
have  taken  place,  unless  the  commodity  itself  had 
become  more  precious  or  more  rare,  or  the  taste  of 
the  public  for  that  kind  of  literature  had  been  exceed- 
ingly improved.  Now  poetry,  instead  of  being  more 
rare,  was  tenfold  more  abundant  when  it  was  most 

*  Ir»  reading  the  foregoing  passage  at  the  Royal  and  London  Institu- 
t-ians,  the  autlior  distinctly  remarked,  that  aS  he  could  not  be  supposed 
to  speak  invidiously  of  any  one  of  the  great  poets  implicated  in  the  quali- 
fied censure,  he  did  not  think  any  other  apology  necessary  either  to  tliem- 
oelves  or  tlnnr  admirers  there  present,  except  that,  deeming  such  censure 
applicable  to  contcMriporaries  in  general,  he  had  named  those  only  wiio 
could  not  be  injured  in  their  established  reputation,  or  their  honourable 
feelings,  by  the  frankness  of  fneiully  criticism;  and  who  could  therefore 
alTord  to  bo  told  of  faults  ^iiich  they  hud,  in  a  small  degree,  in  common 
viilh  a  rnnltilude  of  their  inferiors,  who  have  the  same  in  a  much  higher. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  313 

in  request ;  it  follows,  therefore,  that  the  demand 
was  occasioned  by  a  change  equally  creditable  to  the 
superior  talents  of  those  who  furnished,  and  the 
superior  information  of  those  who  consumed,  the 
supply. 

The  market,  however,  has  much  fallen  within 
these  last  ten  years,  and  the  richest  dealer  long  ago 
invested  his  capital  in  other  funds,  much  to  his  own 
emolument  and  the  satisfaction  of  more  customers 
than  any  author  living  besides  himself  can  boast. 
Lord  Byron  did  worse  ;  but  I  am  not  the  judge  of  his 
morality  here.  I  shall  only  remark  upon  him  in  his 
literary  character,  that  had  he  always  selected  ma- 
terials for  his  verse  (Milton  uniformly  did  his  best) 
equal  to  the  power  which  he  could  exercise  upon 
them,  his  themes  would  never  have  been  inferior  to 
the  loftiest  and  finest  which  he  adorned  in  that  golden 
era  of  his  genius  between  the  publication  of  the  first 
and  the  fourth  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  which  era,  I 
believe,  comprehends  all  his  masterpieces ;  nor 
would  his  execution  ever  have  fallen  below  that 
which,  by  a  few  touches,  could  strike  out  images  of 
thought  equal  to  Pygmalion's  statue  in  beauty ;  while, 
with  a  breath,  he  could  give  them  an  earthly  immor- 
tality, and  by  a  destiny  which  no  revolution  in  lan- 
guage or  empire  can  reverse,  send  them  forth  to  peo- 
ple the  minds  of  millions  of  admiring  readers  in  ail 
ages  to  come.  He  might  have  done  this,  almost  in- 
fallibly, in  every  instance  in  which  he  condescended 
^tq  put  forth  the  whole  strength  of  his  intellect,  and 
Iavis>4i  upon  the  creation  of  an  exuberant  fancy  all  the 
riches  of  a  poetical  diction,  unrivalled  among  con- 
temporaries, and  unexcelled  by  any  of  h'3  predeces- 
sors. Yet  no  modern  author  who  c.tn  lay  claim  to 
the  highest  honours  of  Parnas^as  has  written  a 
greater  quantity  of  perishable,  perishing  rhyme,  than 
the  noblest  of  them  all. 

In  this  sketch  it  is  not  necessary  to  expatiate  on 
tije  particular  merits  of  anv  other  class  of  poets,  these 


314  MODKRN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

two  masters  of  the  lyre  having  been  more  follovvea 
than  the  rest,  not  only  by  the  servile  herd  of  imita- 
tors, bnt  by  many  men  of  real  talent,  who  had  strengtl 
and  stock  enough  of  their  own  to  have  come  out  in 
their  original  characters,  and  spoken  in  their  own 
language.  The  consequence  has  been  just  as  it 
ought  to  be  :  there  is  not  one  copyist  of  either  Sir 
Walter  Scott  or  Lord  Byron  who  is  popular  at  this 
hour ;  and  it  may  be  safely  foretold,  that  not  one 
production  resembling  theirs,  which  is  not  theirs, 
will  last  thirty  years.  There  is  a  small  but  pecuhar 
class  of  versifiers,  which  deserves  a  word  of  notice 
here,  if  it  be  but  a  word  of  reprobation.  The  leaders 
of  this  select  band  of  poetasters  are  men  of  some 
fancy,  a  little  learning,  less  taste,  and  almost  no  feel- 
ing. They  have  invented  a  manner  of  writing  and 
thinking  frigidly  artificial,  while  affecting  to  be  neg- 
ligently natural,  though  no  more  resembling  nature 
than  the  flowers  represented  in  shell-work  on  lack- 
ered grounds,  and  framed  in  glass  cases  by  our 
grandmothers,  resembled  the  roses  and  carnations 
which  they  caricatured.  They  think,  if  they  think 
at  all,  like  people  of  the  nineteenth  century  (for  cer- 
tainly nobody  ever  thought  like  them  before),  but 
they  write  in  the  verbiage  of  the  sixteenth,  and  then 
imagine  that  they  rival  the  poets  of  Elizabeth's  reign, 
because  they  mimic  all  that  is  obsolete  in  them, 
which  in  fact  is  only  preserved  in  Spenser  and 
Shakspeare  themselves,  because  it  is  inseparably 
united  with  what  can  never  become  obsolete, — 
"  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn,"  not 
less  intelligible  at  this  day  than  when  they  were  first 
uttered.  It  might  be  shown  that  the  finest  passages 
in  our  ancient  writers  are  those  in  which  the  phrase- 
ology has  never  become  antiquated,  nor  ever  can  be 
«so  till  the  Englisli  shall  be  a  dead  language.  This 
scliool  must  pass  away  with  the  present  genera- 
tion, as  surely  as  did  the  Delia  Cruscan  of  the  lasi 
century. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  315 


The  Drama. 

Is  it  not  remarkable,  while  we  are  rich  beyond 
precedent  in  every  other  species  of  elegant  literature, 
that  in  the  drama  we  shonld  be  poor  even  to  pau- 
perism, if  that  term  in  its  technical  and  degrading^ 
sense  may  be  so  applied  ?  Not  a  tragedy  that  can 
live  on  the  stage,  its  own  element,  beyond  the  date 
of  a  nine  days'  wonder,  has  been  produced  for  many 
years.  The  phantasmagoria  of  the  Castle  Spectre^ 
the  magnificent  but  anomalous  Pizarro,  the  crazy 
Bertram,  are  not  exceptions,  unless  they  can  bq 
shown  to  be  legitimate  tragedies,  which,  by  thJ- 
power  of  mind  over  mind  alone,  obtained  not  a  tem- 
porary, but  a  permanent  triumph, — a  triumph  that 
must  be  renewed  as  often  as  they  are  performed. 
The  Stranger^  immoral  and  insidious  as  it  is,  long 
maintained  its  ground  by  the  aid  of  consummate  act- 
ing in  its  most  exceptionable  character ;  but  it  must 
be  acknowledged  by  its  warmest  admirers  that  the 
catastrophe  is  achieved  by  a  coup  de  main,  a  trick  of 
pantomime  at  last,  which  amounts  to  a  silent  con- 
fession of  failure,  that  after  all  the  cunning  and  elabo- 
rate preparation  to  secure  success  to  the  interview, 
the  hero  and  heroine,  like  Harlequin  and  Columbine, 
could  only  be  reconciled  in  dumb-show  !  The  Gor- 
dian  knot  of  the  delicate  dilemma  is  cut,  not  disen- 
tangled ;  and  the  imagination  of  the  most  enraptured 
spectator  dare  not  dwell  for  five  minutes  behind  the 
curtain  after  it  has  fallen  upon  the  scene.  The  first 
word  uttered  by  either  party  there  would  dissolve 
the  enchantment  at  once :  Mrs.  Haller  must  be  I^Irs. 
Haller  still,  and  the  Stranger  a  Stranger  for  ever. 
Yet  when  I  name  Miss  Joanna  Baillie,  Miss  Mitford, 
Lord  Byron,  Milman,  Sotheby,  Sheridan  Knowles, 
and  leave  my  audience  to  recollect  other  able  writers 
of  tragedy,  among  our  contemporaries  there  is  evi- 
dently no  lack  of  great  talent  for  this  species  of  com 


316  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

position,  that  may  delight  in  the  closet,  however  the 
taste  of  play-goers  may  have  degenerated  so  as  to 
disrelish  any  thing  either  highly  intellectual  or  highly 
poetic  on  the  stage. 

It  is  vain  to  say  that  many  pieces  bearing  the  name 
of  tragedies  have  been  brought  out  which  deserved 
a  better  fate  than  they  experienced  ;  for  whatever 
may  have  been  the  cause  of  their  miscarriage,  the 
fact,  the  fatal  fact  remains,  that  this  age  has  scarcely 
produced  a  tragedy  which  can  keep  its  hold  as  a  tra- 
gedy in  representation ;  and  short  of  this,  whatever 
be  the  merits  of  some  of  the  prematurely  slain,  they 
were  only  dialogues  in  blank  verse.  Desert  is  no- 
thing in  such  a  case,  except  it  can  enforce  its  claim  ; 
unless  an  audience  cannot  help  being  pleased,  it  is 
idle  to  argue  upon  the  duty  of  their  being  so.  The 
homage  exacted  by  genius  is  that  which  cannot  be 
withheld,  although  it  is  voluntarily  paid.  It  would 
seem  as  if  the  age  of  tragedj^  as  well  as  that  of  epic 
poetry,  were  gone  for  ever  ;  both  belong  to  a  period 
of  less  refinement  in  the  progress  of  modern  society 
than  the  present.  This  is  not  the  place  to  attempt  a 
solution  of  the  paradox. 

But  comedy, — gay,  polite,  high-spirited  comedy, 
might  have  been  expected  to  be  carried  to  perfection 
amid  the  vicissitudes  of  the  last  thirty  years,  when 
the  energies  of  men  in  every  rank  of  life  being  stimu- 
lated beyond  example  by  the  great  events  continually 
occurring  at  liome  and  abroad,  boundless  diversity 
of  character  and  pursuits  must  have  been  ever  at 
hand  to  furnish  materials  for  scenic  exposure  ;  while 
the  popular  mind,  incessantly  craving  for  keener  ex- 
citement, would  eagerly  have  seized  upon  any  novelty 
in  the  form  of  dramatic  entertainment.  Every  novelty, 
except  such  as  genius  alone  could  bring  forth,  has 
been  presented  on  the  stage,  and  accepted  with  avidity 
by  the  frequenters  of  the  theatre  ;  but  no  offspring 
of  intellect  and  taste,  at  all  comparable  to  the  num- 
berless progeny  of  the  same  in  every  other  dep;irt- 


MODKRN    ENGLISH    LITF.R ATUUK.  317 

mentof  literature,  has  appeared  to  redeem  the  credit 
of  the  drama  from  the  disrepute  into  which  it  has 
fallen,  since  Sheridan  gave  to  the  world  his  few  but 
inimitable  comedies.  These,  after  surpassing  all 
that  went  before,  seem  to  have  left  no  hope  for  any 
that  might  follow  them.  This  critique  on  the  present 
state  of  the  drama  in  England,  refers  to  it  solely  as 
one  class  of  htcrature,  and  bears  no  reference  to  the 
questionable  morality  of  theatrical  performances 

Novels  and  Romances. 

In  what  are  properly  called  novels,  fictitious  nar- 
ratives of  common  life,  the  period  between  Pope  and 
Cowper  was  more  prolific  than  any  preceding  one. 
Indeed,  the  genuine  novel  was  yet  a  novelty,  which 
originated,  or  rather  was  introduced,  in  the  merry 
reign  of  Charles  II.,  but  never  had  been  carried  to 
its  height  of  humour  and  reality  till  Fielding,  Smol- 
lett, and  Richardson,  each  in  his  peculiar  and  unri- 
valled way,  displayed  its  utmost  capabilities  of  paint- 
uig  men  and  manners  as  they  are. 

These  were  followed  by  "  numbers  without  num- 
ber," and  without  name,  that  peopled  the  shelves  of 
the  circulating  libraries  with  the  motley  progeny  of 
their  brain.  But  from  the  time  of  the  irruption  of 
Southey  and  his  irregulars  into  the  region  of  Par- 
nassus, where  all  had  been  torpor  and  formality 
before,  with  the  exception  of  the  little  domain  of 
Cowper,  poetry  rose  so  rapidly  into  fashion  as  to 
share  the  patronage  of  sentimentalists  and  other 
idle  readers,  till  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  and  Childe 
Harold  bore  away  the  palm  of  popularity  from  the 
ynost  renowned  of  their  contemporaries — tlie  ladies 
and  gentlemen  that  live  in  novels,  and  nowhere  else. 
There  was  indeed  a  long  and  desperate  resistance 
made  on  the  part  of  the  novelists  against  the  poets , 
and  their  indigenous  resources  failing,  they  called  in 
to  their  ai<1.  not  {Jernian  talcs  unlv,  but — to  confound 


',UH  M()I>i;kn    kn<;f,isii    i.irKiiA'iiiKi:. 

I  lie.  <iicmy  vvilh  their  own  wciipoiis — Cierrriiiii  Inif^c^ 
(lies  and  (ierrnaii  e|)ies,  of  sncli  portentous  si/e  and 
character  as  to  exeit*;  astonislinient,  which  many  of 
those  who  felt  it  mistook  for  achrnration,  hnt  which 
ceas<;d  ('ven  to  he  astomshmeiit  with  th(!  most  stn()id, 
wh(Mi  the  inehriatin^^  ellects  of  the  first  drauf^dit  of 
\\u'.  'reiilonic  I  l(dicon  had  /^M)n(!  off,  and  left  the  reath-r 
in  his  ri^ht  mind.  l\)w  of  these  (;xoti(ts  hav(!  he<!n 
)iatiirali/(!(l  amon^  us,  cxco[)t  tlio  Oheroii  of  Mr. 
.Soth(;hy,  which  hsavcs  no  room  for  regret  to  those; 
wiio  cannot  read  the  (;xqiiisit(;ly  fine  and  fan<;ifnl 
ori^nnal ;  and  sonu;  of  th(!  hcst  dramatic  works  of 
Sciiilhir  and  (ioctlx!. 

it  has  h(M;n  aln^ady  intimatiul,  that  om;  of  the 
^reat(;st  of  living  j)oets  had  emharked  liis  wealtliy 
(wipital  of  thought,  and  inexhanstihh;  stor(!s  of  m(!m- 
ory,  into  a  more  prorital)h!  channel  of  literary  com- 
merce. I  allud(Ml  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  the  author 
of  "the  Waverh^y  Novels,"  as  tlic^y  ar<!  now  si^niifi- 
cant'ly  called, — "  the  (Jr(!at  li)d<nown"  havin/r  (hsa[)- 
peared  in  the;  [XTSon  of  "  th(^  Mif^hty  Minstrel  of  tin; 
North,"  as  tlie  worthy  haronct  had  l)(!<;n  pn^vionsly 
called  in  his  character  of  f)oct.  'IMiesi,',  as  tin;  pro- 
dnctions  of  our,  mind,  (JXiiherant  heyond  (^xamph;  in 
this  cold  climate,  arc  undonhtcdly  tin;  most  (.-xtraor- 
(linary  works  of  the  uffc ;  and  it  miu:ht  perliaps  he 
add(;d,  tin;  most  faidty  that  in  any  -.ifj^a  liavo  cx(!rciscd 
dcs[)otic  dominion  ov(!r  r(;aders  of  every  kiufl,  in 
such  various  ways,  and  for  so  lonfr  a  time.  A  }ii^4icr 
trihute  cannot  he  paid  to  tli(!  sover<'i<,Mity  of  ^a'liius 
than  is  inj|)lied  in  this  (;ensnr(! ;  for  what  nnist  that 
exc(!|len(M',  he  wlii(di  can  afford  sn(di  a  foil,  or  (uidnre 
such  a  (lrawha(-k  !  It  is  no  small  merit  in  th(!S(!  to 
have  so  ()uick(MU'd  the;  cloytid  a|)j)(^tites  of  (tirculat- 
inti-lihrary  readers  for  purer  entertainment,  that  the 
dulness,  froth,  and  'sentimentality  which  were  pre- 
viously th(5  staple-ware-  of  lieadc^nhall-strcet,  and 
other  whol(!sal<!  manufactori(!s  (tf  novels  for  the 
sprin<r    and    fall    fashions,   are  no  lon^iT  toler  .l>le. 


MODKUN    ENGLISH    LITKRATUUE.  319 

and  fictions  of  far  nobler  and  more  intellectual  char 
acter  are  substituted,  though,  of  course,  the  mass  is 
not  wholly  purified,  and  the  million  are  the  vulgar 
still. 

The  principal  literary  objections  to  these  inimi- 
table tales  (for  I  meddle  not  with  their  morality)  in 
after-times  will  be,  that  the  author,  in  his  best  per- 
formances, has  blended  fact  and  fiction  both  in  inci- 
dents and  characters  so  frequently,  and  made  his 
pictures  at  once  so  natural  to  the  life,  yet  often  so 
contrary  to  historical  verity,  that  henceforward  it 
will  be  difficult  to  distinguish  the  imaginary  from  the 
real  with  regard  to  one  or  the  other ;  thus  the  cre- 
dulity of  ages  to  come  will  be  abused  in  the  estimate 
of  men,  and  the  identity  of  events  by  the  glowing 
illusion  of  his  pages,  in  which  the  details  are  so 
minute  and  exquisite,  that  the  truth  of  painting 
will  win  the  author  credit  for  truth  of  every  other 
kind,  and  most,  it  may  be,  where  he  least  de- 
serves it. 

The  Periodical  Press. 

But  it  is  in  the  issues  from  the  periodical  press 
that  the  chief  influence  of  literature  in  the  present 
day  consists.  Newspapers  alone,  if  no  other  evi- 
dence were  to  be  adduced,  would  prove  incontro- 
vertibly  the  immense  and  hitherto  unappreciated 
superiority  in  point  of  mental  culture,  of  the  existing 
generation  over  all  their  forefathers,  since  Britain 
was  invaded  by  Julius  Cassar.  The  talents,  learning, 
ingenuity,  and  eloquence  employed  in  the  conduct 
of  many  of  these ;  the  variety  of  information  con- 
veyed through  their  columns  from  every  quarter  of 
the  globe  to  the  obscurest  cottage,  and  into  the 
humblest  mind  in  the  realm,  render  newspapers,  not 
luxuries,  which  they  might  be  expected]  to  be  among 
an  idolent  and  voluptuous  people,  but  absolute  ne- 


320  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cessaries  of  life, — the  daily  food  of  millions  of  the 
;!:!«st  active,  iiUeUigent  labourers,  the  most  shrewd, 
indefatigable,  and  enterprising  tribes  on  the  face  of 
tile  earth.  Compare  an  ordinary  provincial  journal 
of  last  week,  with  the  best  that  was  published  in  the 
metropolis  fifty  years  ago,  and  the  step  which  refine- 
ment has  made  in  the  interval  will  at  once  appear. 
Tlie  periodical  publications  of  the  first  half  of  the 
last  century, — the  Tatler,  Spectator,  Guardian,  and 
their  successors,  did  much  towards  increasing  an 
eager  relish  for  elegant  literature,  as  well  as  render- 
ing the  more  useful  and  popular  kinds  of  knowledge 
accessible  to  everybody.  But,  except  in  their  mas- 
terpieces, w^hich  may  be  equalled,  though  never  ex- 
ceiled,  there  are  hundreds  of  articles  in  every  week's 
newspapers,  which  may  at  least  rival  the  common 
run  of  essays  in  some  of  the  most  celebrated  works 
above  alluded  to.  The  Literary  Gazette,  the  Spec- 
T-itor,  and  several  other  weekly  journals,  are  deci- 
'  edly  literary,  and  exercise  no  slight  jurisdiction  in 
afiairs  of  criticism  and  taste. 

Of  higher  rank,  though  far  inferior  potency,  are 
magazines.  A  few  of  these,  indeed,  have  consider- 
able sale  ;  but  they  rather  reflect  the  image  of  the 
public  mind,  than  contribute  towards  forming  itf 
features  or  giving  it  expression.  As  amusing  mis- 
cellanies, they  are  in  general  far  superior  to  their 
predecessors,  before  the  establishment  of  that  which 
bears  the  title  of  Monthly, — and  which,  whatever 
ma)'  have  been  its  merits  or  delinquencies  in  past 
times,  had  the  honour  of  efifecting  as  glorious  a 
revolution  among  the  compilers  of  these,  as  Southey 
and  Wordswortli  efiecled  among  the  rhymers  of 
179G.  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  at  this 
time,  probably  takes  the  lead  among  the  fraternity, 
and  by  the  boldn<^ss,  hihirity,  and  address  with  whicli 
it  is  managed,  it  has  become  equally  formidable  in 
politics  and  predominant  in  lit-jr-iture.     In  both  tliese 


MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.  321 

departments  the  New  Monthly  and  the  London 
assume  a  high  station.* 

Yet  there  are  no  publications  whatever  which  at 
once  exemplify  the  advancement  and  the  perversion 
of  mind  at  this  particular  time,  by  such  decided 
symptoms  of  both,  as  the  magazines  already  named, 
which  are  at  the  head  of  their  class.  In  the  leading 
articles  of  these,  there  is  scarcely  a  line  of  natural 
writing  from  month-end  to  month-end.  Let  this 
sweeping  censure  be  admitted  with  what  qualification 
it  may,  the  general  truth  of  the  assertion  may  be 
established  by  an  appeal  to  any  page  of  any  one  of 
them  opened  at  random.  That  admirable  talents 
are  in  full  exercise  there  will  be  instantly  acknow- 
ledged ;  but  then  all  is  effort,  and  splendour,  and 
display.  It  is  fine  acting,  which  only  falls  short  of 
nature ;  but  it  is  not  nature,  and  therefore  cannot 
quite  please,  even  at  its  best ;  we  feel  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  ;  we  may  not  know  exactly  what  it  is, 
but  this  we  do  know,  that  all  is  not  right.  The  con- 
tributions are  got  up  in  a  masterly  manner,  but  evi- 
dently for  the  purpose  of  producing  the  greatest 
possible  effect ;  they  are  positive  experiments  upon 
the  minds  of  the  readers — not  the  unburdening  of 
the  minds  of  the  writers  themselves,  glad  to  pour 
out  in  words  the  fulness  of  feelings  long  cherished 
in  secret,  and  which  they  would  have  uttered  in  a 
desert  island,  where  rocks,  and  woods,  and  streams 
were  their  only  auditors.  Authors  write  best  for 
the  public  when  they  write  for  themselves. f 

Reviews  not  only  rank  higher  than  magazines  ni 


*  And,  since  this  essay  was  composed,  the  Metropolitan,  Frazer's 
Magazine,  and  others. 

t  It  is  but  justice  to  say,  that  since  this  paper  was  originally  com- 
posed (in  IS23),  considerable  improvement  has  been  introduced  in  the 
style  of  many  magazine  articles,  but  still  sufficient  of  the  prodigality 
of  genius  (as  well  as  the  extravagance  of  bad  taste)  is  exhibited 
monthly  in  such  publications  to  justify  the  retention  of  the  passage  as 
St  originally  stood,  with  that  abatement  of  its  severilv  wbirh  this  note 
mplje-a. 

Bb 


322  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

literature— rather  by  usurpation  than  right — but  they 
rival  newspapers  themselves  in  political  influence, 
while  they  hold  divided  empire  with  the  weightier 
classes  of  literature — books  of  every  size,  and  kind, 
and  cliaracter,  on  which  moreover  they  exercise  an 
authority  peculiar  to  the  present  age,  and  never 
dreamed  of  by  critics  in  any  past  period  since  the 
alphabet  was  invented.  Formerly  reviews  were,  on 
the  whole,  what  they  professed  to  be — critical  essays 
on  new  publications ;  and  they  filled  a  respectable 
office  in  the  republic  of  letters,  as  censors  who  did 
their  duty,  not  always  with  ability,  but  generally 
with  fairness  ;  or,  if  otherwise,  with  a  decent  gravity 
of  injustice  that  seldom  exposed  them  to  retaliation. 
The  commencement  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  was 
the  discovery  of  a  new  world  in  criticism,  to  which 
all  authors  were  liable  to  be  transported  as  criminals, 
and  there  dealt  with  according  to  laws  made  on  the 
spot,  and  executed  by  those  who  made  them.  The 
speculation  answered  well,  the  adventurers  grew 
rich  and  renowned,  and  their  ambition  increased 
with  their  wealth  and  celebrity. 

Another  work,  the  Quarterly  Review,  on  the  same 
scale,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  was  started  in 
opposition  to  it ;  and  this  has  flourished  not  less  than 
its  prototype,  by  adopting  nearly  the  same  system 
of  tactics  in  literature,  while  it  has  been  inveterately 
confronted  to  it  in  politics. 

The  Westminster  Review  and  the  British  Critic, 
in  their  respective  departments,  exercise  no  small 
influence  over  respectable  classes  of  readers. 

In  these  nondescript  publications  downright  au- 
thorship and  critical  commentary  are  combined ;  the 
latter  being  often  subsidiary  to  the  former,  and  a 
?aominal  review  being  an  original  essay  on  the  sub- 
ject, of  which  the  work  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
article  sometimes  furnislies  little  more  than  the  title. 
These  distinguished  periodicals,  on  the  ground  of 
ihcir  decided  superiority  to  all  rontcniporarv  journals 


MODERN    ENGLISH    Llii/RA JUKE  323 

n  which  the  saine  subjects  are  discussed,  have  long 
commanded  the  admiration  both  of  friends  and  foes 
and  it  is  a  proud  proof  of  the  ascendency  of  litera- 
tuie  in  our  own  day,  that  these  several  reviews  are 
the  most  powerful  political  auxiliaries,  or  rather 
engines  of  the  several  parties,  which,  in  such  a  state 
as  ours,  divide  public  opinion  between  them  on 
questions  of  national  interest.  It  may  be  added 
that  there  are  other  respectable  publications,  bearing 
the  name  also  of  reviews,  especially  the  Monthly 
and  the  Eclectic,  which  are  conducted  with  various 
degrees  of  ability,  but  all  employing  more  or  less 
the  same  arts  of  criticism,  and  making  criticism 
subservient  to  purposes  foreign  to  itself,  though  cap- 
tivating to  the  world  of  idle  and  capricious,  as  well 
as  curious  and  intelligent,  readers.  By  these,  as  well 
as  by  the  magazines  and  newspapers,  such  variety 
and  abundance  of  extracts  from  nev/  books  are 
regularly  copied  into  their  own  pages,  as  almost  to 
supersede  the  use  of  the  originals ;  whatever  is  most 
valuable  in  each  being  thus  gratuitously  furnished  to 
the  public.  To  authors  of  high  powers  this  practice 
is  eminently  serviceable,  as  by  these  means  they 
are  earlier  and  more  advantageously  introduced  to 
favour  and  fame  than  they  could  otherwise  have 
been  by  all  the  arts  of  puffing  and  the  expense  of 
advertising. 

On  the  whole,  therefore,  periodical  publications 
of  every  order  may  be  regarded  as  propitious  in  their 
influence  to  the  circulation  of  knowledge  and  the 
interests  of  literature ;  while  truth,  however  per- 
verted in  some  instances  by  passion  and  prejudice, 
is  more  rapidly,  effectually,  and  universally  diffused 
by  the  ever-varying  and  everlasting  conflicts  main- 
tained in  these,  than  the  same  quantity  with  the 
same  force  of  evidence  could  be  developed  in  bulkier 
volumes,  by  a  slower  process,  and  within  an  incom- 
parably more  contracted  circle.  Works,  liowever, 
of  thelarjjest  kind,  and  the  mont  e]:ih!)rate  structure, 


324  MODERN    ENGLISH    LITERATUUE.  | 

in  every  department  of  learning,  abound  amoi 
cyclopedias  without  measure,  compilations  w 
number,  besides  original  treatises,  which  e^ 
show  the  industry,  talent,  and  acquirements  < 
thors  in  all  ranks  of  society,  and  of  every  grac 
of  intellect.  Nor  are  there  wanting  works  o 
tory,  voyages  and  travels,  divinity,  law,  and  pi 
of  sterling  value,  and  worthy  of  the  British  n 
which  in  arts  and  arms  is  second  to  none  i; 
world.  The  majority  of  these  publications  e: 
the  same  characteristic  features  as  the  more 
ionable  and  fugitive  ones  previously  deline; 
namely,  strong  excitement  in  profession,  ambi 
display  in  execution,  and  excessive  gratificati( 
the  entertainment  which  they  provide.  The  t 
of  every  era  must  resemble  those  who  wrote 
those  who  read  them.  Great  expectation  mui 
met  with  proportionate  effect;  and  (unreasoi 
as  it  may  appear,  and  as  it  is)  if  the  effect  b( 
beyond  both,  a  degree  of  disappointment  is  ex 
enced  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  measure  of  failu] 
the  other. 

Such,  according  to  the  best  judgment  of  the  w 
of  these  imperfect  remarks,  is  the  present  sta 
literature  in  this  country,  especially  of  popular  ] 
ature,  including  poetry,  the  drama,  works  of 
gination,  and  the  periodical  press.  Of  its  fi 
progress  or  decline  it  is  unnecessary  to  offer 
conjecture.  It  does,  however,  seem  to  have 
proached  a  crisis,  when  some  considerable  ch; 
for  the  better  or  the  worse  may  be  anticipated  ;  v 
literature  in  England  Avill  return  to  the  lov( 
nature  and  simplicity,  or  degenerate  into  boir 
and  frivolity. 


THE   END 


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